Light from Shadows
by Jayden Scott
Summary: Love is complicated. It often does not fit into the neat boxes or within the tidy boundaries we imagine. Will Isabela ever return to Kirkwall? F!Hawke/Merrill/Isabela.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, a bit of an introduction before I jump into this. I have been really hesitant to write any DA2 fics for several reasons, the first being that there is so many awesome stories already out there, that I didn't want to dip my feet into the pond of awesome. Secondly, I have read so many DA2 fics, I have a slight anxiety of influence and don't want to just rewrite a story that has already been written.**

**That being said, I decided to give it a shot anyway. This is slightly non-canon, because I wanted to do something different than just rewrite the gameplay. I have a few ideas of where this will go to make it a different story from the ones out there... so we shall see. Also, all mistakes belong to me and the vicodin I am taking for a broken tooth.**

**Also, I am not sure if I'll even continue this. Depends on how it is received. So please review and let me know if you love it/hate it/want to see it continued. **

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><p>Time was a pesky, illusive creature. When things were going poorly, it lumbered forward at an agonizingly slow pace. But then at other times, it slipped by, sneaking by so fast that Merrill hardly noticed its passing until her stomach growled or her eyelids grew heavy.<p>

She was always losing track of time, among other things. She even lost herself on occasion, but those occasions were less frequent since Varric had given her a ball of twine. It was a pity there was no ball of twine to help her with keeping up with the passing of time.

As it was, she never had time to shop for food. Not that she had much coin to buy it with anyway. Her share of the profits from the missions she participated in with Hawke were mostly spent on books for her studies. In fact, if it weren't for Hawke stopping by several times a week to bring her food and necessities, she might forget to eat altogether.

Her work kept her busy, her research. The Eluvian would not restore itself, and she would help restore history to her people, her clan. It was important. It was worth forgetting to sleep some nights, skipping a meal here or there. Her sacrifice was paltry compared to the gain the Eluvian could provide. It could give them a history, not just legends and stories. It could give them their language, not just broken fragments and phrases used to supplement the common tongue. It could place a name to each of the Creators. It could provide them with an identity.

Merrill sat cross legged in front of the Eluvian and raised her knife to make a shallow cut on the underside of her arm. The blood blossomed brilliant red against the white thatch of healed scars adorning her milk pale skin. She bit her lower lip. It didn't hurt much. Not anymore.

She closed her eyes temporarily and reached out. Not with her hands, but with her mind, within herself to the seat of her power. She reached out and felt for the blood, felt for the wisps of power that dwelled within her own life essence. There it was, like a flame in the dark, whispering to her, calling out and beckoning her. Taking hold of the power, she absorbed, brought it into herself, and then pushed it out.

Opening her eyes, she saw the blood no longer oozing from the cut in slow steady drips, but rising into a vapor as if evaporating. It rose in a swirling, roiling cloud, twisting and floating on non-existent air currents. A gentle prod sent the cloud towards the mirror, to a specific section where it was still cracked. The cloud pooled against the cool glass, hovering against the surface before it condensed in drops that streamed down the glass before being absorbed into the crack.

As the distinct scent of magic and power gradually dissipated, Merrill returned to herself and narrowed her eyes at the mirror. Her brow knit together in frustration. The crack had been almost a gash on surface of the mirror, now it was a narrower crack, but it had not mended completely. Dread Wolf take it. She had been working on this mirror for what seemed like ages! Still it was not finished. It would take more. Much more.

The knife she used for her blood magic was still in her hand. She considered it for a moment, weighing the hilt in her palm thoughtfully before making another cut. This one was vertical, deeper, nothing like the superficial cuts she usually made. It bisected her arm from wrist to midway down her forearm. The result was immediate.

Using small quantities of blood made the power easier to control. It was slow and painstaking, but easier to harness.

_Creators_. The Dalish woman sucked in a breath as she felt the sensuality of the power drawing her in. _This is much better_, she thought before being swept away in the crimson seduction of power, submitting to its draw. Time once again had no meaning. The walls of her pitiful hut seemed to fall away, the floor dissolved underneath her. Only she and the power remained. And the Eluvian.

The sharp crack of thunder shuddered her entire body, drawing her from the blood magic trance. Pain lanced through her body, not from her arm, but radiating out from her cheek. She returned herself abruptly, the dim flickering light emanating from the lamp nearby was blinding. Merrill blinked involuntary tears from her eyes.

The roof of her shack must have finally collapsed under the assault of the storm, striking her in the face and yanking her from the blood trance. It was bound to happen eventually. It leaked every time it so much as drizzled. She hoped the Eluvian had not been damaged. She had worked so hard on it; the prospect of repairing further damage to it was daunting. She'd have to go to the Hanged Man. Varric would let her sleep in his suite until her roof could be repaired. Or she could go to Hawke's, but Hightown was so far away, and she would never find her way there, even in broad daylight, let alone during storm at night.

Besides Varric was always nice to her, did not care if she was a blood mage. Hawke was nice too of course, but it was also quite clear she did not approve of Merrill's methods, her relentless study of the Eluvian. Varric was always nice to her, even when it came to blood magic. Of course, he would let her stay the night. He might even help repair the damage to her shack.

It was funny though. She had heard the thunder, felt her roof collapse, but she did not feel the rain or the wind. She did not feel wet, except under one arm. How very odd that it was only raining on part of her.

Finally, Merrill's eyes adjusted to the light, she realized she was not looking up into the dusky night sky above the alienage, but the startling brilliant blue eyes of the Ferelden rogue. And the unsettling blue eyes and handsome face of her friend, was her roof, perfectly intact. Well, as intact as it had been at the beginning of the night.

"Hawke…?" Merrill whispered, puzzled. Oh, dear. Was that her voice that sounded so strained, barely a squeak? Why is Hawke's face twisted up like that? Hawke always looked so solemn, always so serious like the City Guards that hardly ever smiled, but the skin around her lips and eyes looked pinched, it was different from her usual stoicism.

"Thank the Maker," Hawke breathed and smoothed her bangs back from Merrill's forehead, allowing it to rest on the side of her face. Her fingers and palms were calloused, rough despite the tender gesture. Fighter's hands.

Merrill had wondered what Hawke's touch might feel like, and now that she knew, she felt her face suddenly flush warm. Shoving the thought away, she tried to sit up, but Hawke only pushed her back down.

It was then she realized that she was laying down, the upper part of her body pulled into Hawke's lap and supported by her strong arms, cradled against the rogue's torso.

The realization only deepened the blush, spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She was certain she must looked like a boiled crab, but Hawke said nothing, she never did, even when Merrill managed to make a fool of herself by rambling or blushing.

Hawke was always kind to her, to everyone really, not just her. Hawke was genuinely good; she never turned down a request for help, even from an elf or someone who could not pay. She was compassionate, offering comfort, words of consolation, to anyone whom she deemed needed it. Hawke never raised her voice, never seemed to get angry. She was clever and always had a witty remark, but that had taken Merrill awhile to catch onto because Hawke's expression never changed, even when she was making a joke. She was beautiful. She was so strong, fighting as if she were possessed by a demon, but there was a beauty and grace to her movements, even in battle.

She did not approve of blood magic, but she did not show disgust like Fenris or judgmental contempt like Anders.

So she was not surprised at the level of tenderness Hawke showed as she gently lifted Merrill in her arms and gingerly placed her on the bed. But why was she here? Why had she thought there was a storm? And why did her throat feel so dry and scratchy, her body so leaden? "Hawke, what are you…"

Hawke held up a hand, cutting Merrill off, something she had never done before.

Merrill swallowed hard, but complied, watching as Hawke ripped the hem of her own tunic with an almost frantic jerk. Then, she held the makeshift rag to Merrill's bleeding forearm.

She inhaled sharply. Creators! There was so much blood, still steadily flowing from the self-inflicted would. It was flowing faster than her magic could have consumed it. Her wide green eyes flickered to where she had been seated in front of the Eluvian, to the small puddle of blood and dried smears on the floor.

Hawke applied more pressure to the wound, heedless of any pain Merrill might feel. At Merrill's pained whimper, she snapped her gaze to Merrill's, eyes flashing dangerously, like they did before a fight or whenever Templars were around her sister. Hawke looked like a predator, and Merrill felt like her prey. But still, the older woman said nothing.

Merrill swallowed the tight ball of fear in her throat and clamped down on her lower lip so she would not make any more noise. When Hawke finally managed to stem the flow of blood, she further destroyed her tunic by tearing more strips from around the waist and bound them tightly around Merrill's arm.

"What in the name of Andraste's sanctified arsehole were you trying to accomplish?" Hawke breathed, her words no louder than a whisper but still Merrill flinched as though she had shouted.

"I was just trying to fix this crack in the Eluvian. It was much trickier than I thought it would be because it wasn't so much a crack as a fissure… in the glass. I tried to fix it like I fixed the others but it just wasn't working. So I tried a little harder, a little more blood because I needed the power. It was only a little blood really, and it is worth it if it restores my people their heritage." She spoke quickly, licking her lips, not caring she was rambling. "I know what I'm doing, you know. I didn't think-"

"Exactly!" Hawke exclaimed, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "You didn't _think_."

The flush returned to Merrill's face, but this time it was anger. How dare Hawke scold her like a child? "I am not a child, Hawke. I know what I am doing."

Hawke stood and stalked angrily over to the Eluvian, to the blood congealing in front of it. "Oh, yes." She said sarcastically, pointing at the blood staining the floor next to her feet. "That is why I found you bleeding to death in some Maker damned blood trance!"

It was the first time Merrill had heard the other woman yell. "I didn't bleed to death." The elf said softly. Hawke did not yell. Even in battle. Even when she was very angry. Hawke did not lose her composure, never betrayed any emotion but calm, even when surrounded by chaos. "I am not a child, Hawke. You all may think I'm a bumbling idiot but I do know what I am doing."

The rogue spared her a glance, shook her head. "I was right to deny you the arulin'holm."

Merrill stiffened as if Hawke had struck her. The remark cut deeper than any knife used for blood magic could.

The arulin'holm had been a source of great tension between the two of them. Hawke always defended Merrill to Fenris, had told him to shut it when he had called Merrill a monster after Pol had been killed. But then she had denied her the tool that would help complete the Eluvian, claimed it was best for Merrill. The notion that a shemlen knew what was best for her more than Merrill herself did outraged her. No one trusted her, not even Hawke, and that broke her heart. They all thought they needed their help, their protection like a fool or child that did not know any better.

Weeks passed before Merrill had spoken to Hawke again, and then only because Isabela had intervened. She was so hurt that Hawke did not trust her. Isabela had listened to her angry tears, her pain and stroked her hair.

"Kitten, Hawke adores you. So much so it turns her into a self-righteous prig." Isabela had told her. "She would rather you hate her than risk you doing anything that brought harm to yourself. The two of you are miserable. With the Qunari mess, she needs you more now than ever." Isabela smiled in that special way that she reserved only for Merrill, not a smirk but a smile, reassuring in its warmth. "I'm not saying forgive her, Maker knows it's not my place to get involved in a mess of feelings. But can't you put it aside enough to tolerate one another's presence?"

So Merrill had. She stopped avoiding Hawke and gradually, they resumed their friendship as if nothing had happened. At first, it had only been an act; she was still hurt. But once she was around her again, Merrill found she could not stay angry at Hawke. And perhaps, after what happened with Pol, she had been right to be afraid to give her the arulin'holm.

But now all stinging pain bubbled to the surface again, as if it had never left. "I don't need you Hawke. I don't need your protection." Merrill shot back icily. "I know I ramble, and I don't always understand everything that is said, and I don't get dirty jokes and I get lost. I might not be as pretty or smart as Isabela," At the mention of the pirate, Hawke's gaze snapped to her. "But I am not a fool. Nor am I child that you can reprimand. I don't need you to save me. I don't need you telling me what to do or how to help my people or what is right or wrong. I don't need you at all!" Merrill lied, tears spilling from her eyes. "I don't need you. Leave me alone."

For a fleeting moment, hurt passed over Hawke's features. Like a little puppy that had just been kicked or pushed away. But it was quickly replaced by stoicism. Striding over to the bed, Hawke touched two fingers to the bandage she had tied around Merrill's arm, which had stopped bleeding.

The elf jerked it away as if the gingers had burned her, unable to bear the rogue's touch.

"I won't send Anders; he will only show you contempt," Hawke said neutrally and withdrew her hand. "I'll make sure Varric or Isabela comes to look after you." Without another word or a farewell, Hawke spun on the heel of her boot and left Merrill's hovel, slamming the door behind her.

The Dalish exile turned her head into her pillow, unable to stem the flow of tears. Creators, why was this so complicated? Hawke was the one she wanted to look after her, to care for her. But she made her so angry! Why didn't Hawke understand? Why couldn't she see how important the Eluvian was to her? Hawke was so smart, so beautiful, so kind… there were moments that Merrill hoped, oh how she hoped, that she might return her feelings.

But then she made her contempt for Merrill and blood magic perfectly clear. Nothing could ever be between them, not even friendship it seemed.

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><p>Hawke was angry.<p>

If there was one thing she prided herself on, and to be fair there were a few, it was her self-control. Bethany and Carver were the opposite of her in that respect. Bethany was always the more sensitive of the twins, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

Of the twins, Hawke had always been more like her. Compassion and empathy guided her actions. Perhaps had she been swayed by Bethany's arguments not to be left behind, she would not be imprisoned in the Circle. As it was, Hawke differed from her in one fundamental way: she never allowed others to see what she felt. Otherwise, it would have been easy for an enemy to take advantage of and exploit her emotions.

Carver had been quick to anger, always surrendering to his rage and that made him blind to all else and stupid. In his anger, he had launched himself at an ogre and been killed. Hawke should have been closer to him, to stop him. More than that, as his elder sister, she should have been more understanding of his feelings. Maybe had she listened to him more when they were younger, he would have been less inclined to explode like a dwarven cannon.

Hawke was meticulous in governing her emotions. She always showed kindness where it was warranted because it was simply the right thing to do. There were too many people who cared only for their own feelings, but Hawke believed that everyone deserved to be helped, to be delivered from their suffering. If one had the opportunity to end the suffering of another person, was it not their duty to do so whenever they could?

But anger, rage, hatred were all dangerous, useless emotions as far as Hawke was concerned. They clouded one's judgement, made it impossible to make objective, rational decisions. Let her enemy be angry, it was only opportunity to use it against him.

Not that she was indifferent to suffering and cruelty and injustice she witnessed, and there was plenty in Kirkwall. It upset her, certainly, but rather than let it anger her, it only solidified her determination, steeled her resolve. Instead of being consumed by an insatiable hunger for vengeance or retribution, she was fortified with purpose.

So when she had snapped at the young Dalish elf, she had been appalled with herself.

But when she had walked in with a bundle of food for the elf and found her lying, unconscious in a puddle of blood, she had been terrified. The air still held the acrid taint of magic that singed her nostrils. Cold sweat broke out on her shoulders as she ran to Merrill's side, dropping to the floor and pulling her into her lap.

"Wake up, Merrill, please," Hawke had coaxed her, held her ear to the elf's mouth and nose when she did not answer. She was still breathing, thank the Maker. "Come on, wake up." She shook her, gently at first, then more vigorously. "For Andraste's sake, Merrill!" Hysteria crept in at the edge of her voice, and Hawke swallowed hard to force it down. She patted her cheek, then raised her hand and backhanded her sharply.

At that, the trance seemed to be broken and Merrill's eyes had slowly fluttered open. Relief had washed over Hawke like a breaking wave, washing away the fear. But as the wave of relief subsided, another crashed down her with crippling force. Anger.

Hawke shook her head vigorously to clear her thoughts as the feeling crept back into her throat, aching to be released as a scream. Inhaling deeply and with concentrated effort, she mastered her feelings.

She was angry because she was frightened. The Dalish elf had come to mean so much to her. How anyone could not love Merrill was beyond Hawke's grasp, except Fenris, but she was convinced the only happiness he derived from life was stewing in his own hatred and misery. And Anders. But Hawke was not blind. She knew that Anders' loathing of Merrill had much more to do with his jealousy than Merrill's blood magic.

Merrill was better than all of them, except maybe Bethany. Better than Aveline even, who was always morally just but still jaded and bitter by all she had witnessed in her life. Merrill however had seen just as much injustice and badness in the world, yet still managed to think the best of people. She was genuinely sweet and good-hearted. Her intentions were always pure and honest. Even when Fenris was nasty to her, Merrill still tried to be friendly. Even her forays into blood magic were with the best intentions. She did not crave power or wealth or domination over others; all she wanted was knowledge for her people, an escape from the bonds of ignorance.

She loved Merrill. She loved her in a way that extended far beyond the safe boundaries of friendship. Part of being master of her emotions was recognizing them. She had realized that her affection for the elf was romantic long ago, but it was not as easy as that. There were complications, other feelings that Hawke found herself helpless against. But one thing was certain: because she loved Merrill, she could not allow her to be destroyed by this mirror, by blood magic.

It put the two of them at odds. Merrill thought Hawke was trying to sabotage her work, that she did not believe in her. They fought, disagreed at every turn where the Eluvian was concerned.

Because she loved Merrill, she would rather the elf hate her forever than allow her to become an abomination or destroy herself with obsession. It hurt, but losing Merrill, seeing that purity and goodness destroyed, would be worse than anything Hawke could imagine.

The Hanged Man was as busy as usual. Isabela was not difficult to spot, even surrounded by a cluster of two men and two women Hawke had never seen before. Probably sailors that had just docked in Kirkwall, already enamored with the pirate queen.

Hawke pushed her way through them, ignoring their grumbles and protests. "Isabela,"

The pirate grinned at her appearance and took a healthy swallow of rum. "Have you come to steal me away from all these fine Antivan sailors?" She asked mischievously, casting a wink at one of the nearest young men.

"I need you to look after Merrill." Hawke ignored Isabela's flirtations.

There were few things that could cause the pirate to immediately sober. The grin faded and she waved a hand of dismissal at her admirers. "Sorry lads and ladies, party is over." The sailors grumbled their protest, reluctant to leave what had they thought might be a promising night for at least one of them. "Go, before I cut off your intimate parts and feed them to the gulls." She snapped irritably when they did not move away fast enough for her. "What's wrong with Kitten?"

Hawke raked her fingers through her unruly, short black hair, and Isabela quirked a brow at the uncharacteristic gesture of the other rogue. "Merrill… she was working on that damn mirror again. She cut too deep, I suppose, and lost consciousness. I was bringing her food and found her. But she is angry with me and does not want me around. Will you go to her, take care of her?"

"Oh, Hawke…" Isabela reached out and gently caressed Hawke's cheek, more gently than anyone would have believed possible for the pirate, which caused Hawke to mentally flinch. "You're a bloody idiot."

"I know." Hawke admitted, sighing, defeated. "Please?"

"Of course." Isabela gave a small, half nod, for once not having anything sarcastic or witty to say. She quickly left, and Hawke took her place at the bar to finish the tankard of rum the pirate had abandoned.

Isabela was right, partly. Hawke was a bloody idiot. They were all bloody idiots.

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><p><strong>There you have it. Again, please review and let me know what you think so I know whether or not I should continue this.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**After the business trip from hell (I really enjoyed the 16 hours I spent in the airport, truly) and the broken tooth I am half a moment from ripping out myself with a rusty set of needle nose pliers, I have not been in the writing mood. However, I feel slightly guilty letting so much time elapse between updates.**

**I apologize for the delay. I also apologize if this chapter blows flying donkey dick. Pain medication is not conducive to my muse.**

**As always, please review. It makes me happy and junk.**

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><p>"Oh, Merrill," Isabella sighed, unwrapping the makeshift bandage Hawke had bound around the elf's forearm. "What have you done with yourself?"<p>

_She's calling me Merrill instead of Kitten because she's disappointed in me, just like Hawke_, Merrill thought dismally. The Keeper did something similar whenever she was displeased with her First. Usually, the Keeper would affectionately call her _da'len_, but when she was especially cross, she would call her Merrill in that clipped way that made her heart drop into her stomach and her knees turn to jelly.

When Merrill did not answer, Isabela sighed and prodded at the edges of the cut with her fingers. "Andraste's tits. You stay put, I am going to need more than rag to deal with this." The pirate stood and gave her thigh a reassuring pat, smiled. "Don't worry, Kitten, we'll have you frolicking through the viscount's garden again in no time."

Merrill again did not respond, even as Isabela left. She couldn't think of the words, couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound stupid. She felt numb, her whole body. She didn't even feel the cut on her arm, which had reopened and begun to seep blood again. Not a great deal of blood, just a little, that beaded and ran down her arm and dripped onto her bed like tears.

She had messed up. Again. She was always messing up. She never could do anything right. She could not fix the Eluvian. She could not even make her friends see how important the Eluvian was, not just to her, but to her people. She couldn't make Hawke see her for anything other than a bumbling fool. Perhaps she was just a bumbling fool; she had not done a good job of demonstrating otherwise. Failing at blood magic only to be discovered unconscious in front of the mirror by the one person she wanted to prove herself to. Well, that wasn't true. She wanted to prove herself to the Keeper as well, but for different reasons entirely.

But why did she even bother anymore? It was clear that Hawke did not trust her, would never trust her. Tears sprang into her eyes again. The alternative was to not try, and the notion that Hawke would never see her as anything but a friend, a child needing her protection, was too unbearable to consider. The Eluvian was important, and Merrill could fix it, she knew she could. She would! And then she would show the Keeper, her clan, Hawke that she wasn't chasing a fool's errand. She had done something important, and Hawke would see it, see _her_.

The pirate returned quickly and slung a bundle from her shoulder onto the bed. Quickly, she produced an earthenware bottle and uncorked it, taking a heavy swig. "Drink this." Isabela instructed, thrusting the bottle into Merrill's uninjured hand.

Sniffing it, she quickly jerked away from the bottle. "Oh, Isabela… you know I don't hold my liquor well. Do you really think this is the best time for me to be drinking? I've already messed things up terribly. Creators know how badly I'll mess things up if I drink."

Isabela laughed that smooth, honeyed laugh of hers and pushed the bottle back towards her. "Oh, Kitten, you're so cute I wish I could keep you all to myself." She produced a long, wicked needle from the bundle and a spool of thread. "I have to stitch your cut, or it will keep opening and bleeding. The drunker you are, the less you'll feel. Which is something I learned a long time ago," She winked at Merrill, as if sharing a deep, treasured secret.

She paled at the sight of the needle, but nodded, trusting Isabela implicitly. The pirate would never do anything to hurt her, and always made her feel safe. Smiling shakily, she drank from the bottle. It was bitter, acrid, burning her mouth and throat and the inside of her nostrils. Isabela could always make her smile, could always make everything seem okay, even if it wasn't. She took another long sip to avoid looking at Isabela threading the needle. If anyone knew what she should do about Hawke, Isabela would.

"Hawke hates me," Merrill said softly, turning her head on the pillow so she would not have to see what Isabela was about to do.

Snorting, Isabela reached for the bottle and took another long pull before returning it to Merrill. "Drink more. I still have to clean it before I can stitch it properly, and you're not drunk enough yet. And Hawke doesn't hate you. She could never hate you. The stick that's lodged up her ass is unfortunately almost as big as our Big Girl's is."

The warmth from the alcohol began to spread from Merrill's throat to her chest to her head as she drank more. She felt Isabela wipe her forearm with a damp cloth that was pleasantly cool against her skin. Her brow knit together in confusion. "What stick? Is that something dirty?"

Chuckling, Isabela shook her head. "You are precious, you know? It isn't something dirty. It's an expression. You know how Lady Man-Hands is so… proper and uptight? Hawke is like that, in a different way."

"Oh,"

"And it doesn't mean she hates you. It just means she wants to protect you, in the way she thinks is best. She adores you, Kitten, she is just awful at showing it. How are you feeling? Is the room spinning yet?"

Merrill shook her head, then regretted it as she began to feel the effects of the cheap alcohol. "I feel warm, is it too warm in here? My fire burned out ages ago and I haven't lit a new one. My whole body feels as if it's wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. That's the rum, isn't it? Oh, it must be. I'll stop talking now."

Isabela placed a hand on Merrill's brow and smoothed her bangs from her face; the elf leaned into the touch. The pirate's hand felt cool, comforting. It felt good to be touched. Yes, she was beginning to feel the effects of the rum. "I'm going to start now. You'll feel a pinch, but if the Maker has any mercy, the rum should numb you to most of it."

The hand was withdrawn, and Merrill closed her eyes, wincing as she felt the pinch that Isabela warned her about. It did not hurt too bad, no worse than any of the dozens of cuts she had inflicted on herself to fix the Eluvian. "I love Hawke." She said without thinking

She felt rather than saw the pirate stiffen at the admission, but she quickly relaxed and continued stitching the cut. "Of course you do, Kitten. Everyone loves Hawke. She has that solemn, smoldering sexiness that seeps out of every poor. And an ass that could make the Reverend Mother lift her robes. And the way she picks a lock," Isabela said dreamily, as if losing herself to her own words. "those slender fingers nimbly testing it, exploring every angle until they find exactly the right spot…"

Merrill lost herself in the image Isabela painted of Hawke's fingers and coughed hard when she tried to take another sip of rum to settle her thoughts. It was definitely too warm in the hovel. "Sorry, Kitten," Isabela said sheepishly. "But, like I said, everyone loves Hawke. She's good to the core. What isn't to love?"

"No, Isabela. I love Hawke. I want her to love me. I love her in that way that makes my insides go to mush whenever she looks at me or talks to me or says my name or even if I just hear her name. She makes my heart beat like the thundering hooves of the halla. I get all dizzy and lightheaded when she's around. I always want to be close to her, in battle or even just talking. She makes me feel like when she smiles at me, that there is nothing left in the world but her and me and everything else just falls away. She is so beautiful and clever and good…" Merrill was rambling and did not care. "And she just thinks I'm a rambling fool, and I am. I could never be good enough for her." It felt good, to finally admit how she felt about Hawke to another person. She felt lighter.

Dark fingers delicately took Merrill's chin, turned her face towards the pirate, whose expression was uncharacteristically serious. "Kitten, if anyone deserves Hawke, if anyone is good enough for her, it's you."

Merrill met the pirate's amber gaze and wondered why her voice sounded so funny. It sounded like Isabela was sad, but that couldn't be it. Isabela was never sad. It must be the rum. The room was beginning to blissfully spin. Yes, the rum. Merrill would hate it if she had said anything that made Isabela sad.

Sleep had been restless and illusive at best. Despite the physical toll of the day, despite the numbness that seemed to slip its icy fingers into her mind, Hawke had not slept well. She knew that Isabela would take care of Merrill with the same dedication and tenderness Hawke herself would. If there was one person in the world that Isabela loved, despite her vocal protests that feelings were a messy, dangerous thing, it was the Dalish elf. It might not be romantic love, but it still fettered Isabela to another person in a way that Hawke doubted the pirate was comfortable with.

But Isabela could still never deny Merrill, which was probably best at the moment. Hawke was not what Merrill needed at the moment.

Shoving the thoughts, and the tickle of anger that still lingered in her throat, to the side, Hawke focused instead on her mindless morning routine. She washed, tousled her short raven hair in such a way that it perpetually fell into her eyes, ate a light breakfast of fruit, and dressed while mentally running through the list of tasks for the day.

There was not much. Perhaps they could have an "off" day. With Merrill decidedly not up to running about the Free Marches, and Isabela tending to her, she would be forced to take either Fenris or Anders (or worse, both) on any potential undertakings. As much as she liked Fenris, his brooding intolerance of mages would likely grate on her nerves that day. His polar opposite, Anders, wasn't much better. She agreed with the former Grey Warden in principle, but not his practice.

Yes. That's what they all needed, Hawke decided. A day free of bandits and Qunari and politics and blood mages and Templars. And even if the rest of her companions did not need it, she certainly did. Aveline had returned from her honeymoon in Orlais; this would be a good time to visit her best friend. Hawke finished lacing her boots and checked herself one final time in the mirror.

It was not out of vanity that the rogue always gave herself a final once over every time she left the estate. It was practicality; ever the perfectionist, she checked every buckle, every lacing of her armor, examined potential weak spots where a blade might be able to penetrate the leather. Checking her blades, she ensured they were clean and sharp, free of rust or nicks. She had not survived years in Kirkwall by being careless.

Satisfied, she bade farewell to her mother and Bodahn and Sandal. The elf servant that she had rescued from Hadriana shuffled her feet nervously and called her mistress again; Hawke opened her mouth to correct her, but thought better of it. One of these days, she would convince her that she was no longer a slave, but it probably wasn't today.

She found Aveline where she usually was, behind her desk, fingers stained with ink from the sheaves of paperwork that demanded the guard captain's attention. She barely glanced up when Hawke entered and shut the door behind her. Patiently, Hawke waited until her friend was finished and ready to acknowledge her.

Despite her complaints to the contrary, Aveline loved being captain of Kirkwall's guard. Of course it was a lot of paperwork and mind-numbing bureaucracy, but Hawke felt that Aveline had truly found her niche. It suited her. Her guards were her family, her children that she shepherded and commanded with sternness and affection in equal measure. She was like a mountain cat with her cubs. Beyond that, she had purpose. Things always seemed so clear to Aveline: protect Kirkwall and its citizens, all else was secondary. Whatever she had done before the Blight, Hawke could not imagine it fit Aveline as well as the mantle of guard captain.

Finally, Aveline sighed and set her quill down. "What do you need, Hawke?"

"Can't I come by and see after my friend without needing something?" Hawke asked, quirking a brow.

Sighing again, more heavily this time, the tall guard captain stood and rounded to the opposite side of her desk, leaning against the edge of it. "Of course, sorry. I sometimes forget that you aren't one of my guards."

Hawke smirked and cocked her head to the side. "All business, Aveline?" She shrugged, dismissing the matter as unimportant. "In all truth, I am one of your guards. I have handled enough city guard business. I like to think of myself as an independent contractor."

At that, Aveline laughed softly. "True enough, you have been helpful. But you still don't work for me. I can't imagine you working for anyone. So, what can I do for you, Hawke?"

"I wanted to see how you were settling into married life." Hawke leaned against one of the office's massive bookcases. As spartan as the office was, one would think Aveline would at least have a few chairs. "You never said how your honeymoon in Orlais went?"

"You're right," Aveline smiled broadly, in a way that illuminated her whole countenance. "I didn't."

"That good?"

"Donnic is a good man, and I love him." Aveline shrugged her massive shoulders. "I should have realized it was as simple as that instead of complicating matters with all these ridiculous plans of courting him. Don't tell her I said this, but Isabela might have been right for once."

Hawke shook her head vehemently, imagining the pirate's reaction to Aveline's admission. "No. I'd never tell her. She would never let you hear the end of it."

"Good woman." Aveline cocked her head to the side and studied Hawke for a moment. "What's on your mind, Hawke? Not that I don't think you would drop by just to check on how Donnic and I are doing, but I've known you before today. Something is bothering you."

It was a statement, not a question. Aveline knew her better than anyone else, except perhaps Bethany. That was partly why she had come to the guard captain; she wanted to speak to her about Merrill, gain her perspective of the situation. Aveline was her best friend, someone who she trusted with more than just her life, but with her thoughts and feelings. There wasn't anyone in Kirkwall who she respected or admired more than the guard captain. Despite her being a little uptight, Aveline was trustworthy, loyal, and decent to her very core.

If anyone could help sort through her feelings, it would be her.

So Hawke told her. Everything. How she felt about Merrill, about walking into find Merrill unconscious in a puddle of her own blood, about losing her temper, what the Dalish elf had said to her, about fetching Isabela after Merrill had thrown her out.

When she finished, Aveline's expression had not changed. Hawke wondered how much of her own stoicism had been influenced by the guard captain, but then dismissed the thought. She had been stone-faced even as a child, so much so that her father had often joked that his eldest daughter had the perfect expression for Wicked Grace. "As loathe as I am to ask, what does Isabela have to say about this?"

Hawke felt her mouth dry with the question she had not anticipated. "Isabela has made it clear that there is only one thing she is interested in from me."

Aveline did not appear convinced. "It's never just the _one_ thing, no matter how much both parties claim it is." She held up her hand to silence Hawke's protest. "I'm not judging; I just don't want to see you hurt, Hawke. But you came to me for help about Merrill, which why is beyond me. You saw how I botched it all up with Donnic."

"I don't need help with courting… If my mother hints one more time that she wants to see me married… What I need help with is…" Hawke frowned to herself, puzzling out exactly why she had come to Aveline. Certainly not for love advice. "I don't know what to do with Merrill."

"Well, what do you want to do?"

"After last night? I want to thrash some sense into her." The ugly head of anger reared white hot within her again.

The guard captain stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Merrill isn't a child, Hawke."

"She is acting like one!" Hawke exclaimed and pushed off from the bookcase, pacing again. "I'm half-tempted to treat her like one."

"No you're not. That is just your anger speaking." Aveline raised both brows, the only indication that she was surprised by the outburst from her usually unperturbedly calm friend.

Hawke sighed and stopped pacing. "You're right. She is not a child. I know she seems foolish and naïve, but she isn't. She is actually incredibly intelligent, underneath all the… social awkwardness and timidity. That is why it is so frustrating that she chooses to engage in blood magic."

"I know she has to be intelligent. You're not in the habit of surrounding yourself with stupid people." The guard captain went to the bookcase behind her desk, opened a cabinet concealed to make look like just another row of books. She produced two small glasses and a canter of amber brown liquor. "Of course, not the most emotionally adjusted individuals. For all they hate one another, Fenris and Anders are consumed by the same hateful vengeance. The only romantic relationship Varric seems to allow himself is with his crossbow. Isabela is a lying, cheating, thieving whore, and Merrill trifles with blood magic to restore a broken mirror that does not even reflect anything. And I, a grown woman, can't even manage to court a man without the help of her best friend. But we are all reasonably intelligent."

"You make us all sound like a mess." Hawke grumbled and accepted the small glass of whiskey Aveline poured for her. It surprised her that the usually stuffy guard captain kept alcohol in her office, but realized it shouldn't. Everyone needed to decompress, even Aveline.

Aveline took a small sip from her own glass. "We are. My point is, everyone is a mess. We all have our own emotional messes. But also know you wouldn't fall for someone stupid. Merrill is just awkward. I believe in my heart that she thinks she is doing the right thing trying to restore her people's history."

"It will destroy her. The ends don't justify the means, Aveline. We both agree on that." Hawke sipped the whiskey, relishing the pleasant burn of her throat as she swallowed. This was definitely better stuff than the Hanged Man ever served, meant to be savored rather than swilled.

"But we disagree on blood magic. I believe it's inherently evil. No matter how hard one tries to use it for good, it turns out evil."

Hawke shook her head. "I don't think it can be inherently evil. It was the first type of magic there was, after all. Magic isn't an evil, but I think there is something in the nature of blood magic that…" She frowned and took another sip. "consumes the user. It causes such a driving obsession that it drives the user to madness, to destruction."

"Then we get drawn into Ander's debate." Aveline smiled wryly. "Do good mages turn bad because of how they are oppressed? Or is it already in their nature? And the oppression comes because of their nature?"

"Having to listen to Anders is bad enough. Must I hear it from you as well?" Hawke was not in the mood to discuss the ever-constant issue of Mage against Templar. It was bad enough to see the manifestations of the debate regularly in the tasks they undertook, or listen to it from Anders and Fenris all the time. "I thought I was asking you about Merrill?"

"This is about Merrill." Evidently tired of standing, Aveline sat back behind her desk, holding her glass of whiskey in both hands. "You say you don't believe blood magic is intrinsically evil, yet you believe it will destroy her. So you've tried to… keep her from using it."

"Nothing I've done seems to work." Hawke muttered bitterly. She had denied Merrill the arulin'holm, tried to make it clear at every turn that she did not support blood magic, in fact, she had actively condemned the practice. What else could she do?

"Does she know how you feel? About her? She knows how you feel about blood magic, obviously."

"I've never told her, nor have I made it a secret."

"Hawke." Aveline rolled her eyes pointedly. "Everything you feel is a secret. You're about as obvious as Isabela is discreet."

Opening her mouth, Hawke realized she did not have a reply. She had never given real thought to acting on her feelings before; she was too preoccupied with trying to keep the Dalish elf safe, with protecting with her, usually in ways that made Merrill angry with her.

Did Merrill have feelings for her? Or was she too angry, too bitter towards Hawke for meddling in her efforts with the Eluvian, sabotaging her work? If Hawke confessed her feelings, would Merrill reciprocate them, would she stop using blood magic, would it change anything at all? Or would Merrill simply laugh at her, mock her for thinking that the love of a human could ever change her aspirations for her people? Or even worse, and more likely, would Merrill pity her?

No, it had always been enough for Hawke simply to protect the elf, from the outside world, from Fenris, from herself. But now Aveline had given her doubts.

"Do you think I should tell her?"

"It would have saved me a lot of trouble and humiliation if I would have just told Donnic." Aveline shrugged and poured a little more whiskey into her glass. "Only you can decide what is right, but I think if you made your feelings known, it might help clear things up for the two of you. And if nothing else, you should know if you're wasting your time on someone who cannot return your affections."

"You're right." Hawke threw back the last sips of her whiskey in one large sip that stung the back of her eyes. "Thank you, Aveline. For the talk… and the whiskey. I never knew you had such fine taste in liquor."

Snorting, the guard captain took Hawke's glass. "You should know that because I never drink any of that swill they serve at the Hanged Man."

Hawke felt lighter than she had in ages. Aveline had not so much as given her advice, as guided her through her feelings and led her to a conclusion. That was why she liked Aveline; she didn't simply give the answers, she talked things out, counseled Hawke to reach her own decisions.

Though, Hawke knew that even if Merrill did not return her feelings, even if nothing came of Hawke's admission, that she would not stop trying to protect the elf. Her feelings were not contingent on Merrill returning them. There was nothing she would not give, nothing she would not do to keep her safe, even if that meant Merrill hated her, even if the elf could not, would not love her. Hawke would always do what was right by her.

Voices could be heard from inside the estate even before Hawke pushed open the door. Sandal was happily clapping at something, "Enchantment!" He cried ecstatically. "Enchantment" was his standard exclamation of pleasure for when anything made him happy or pleased him, regardless of whether or not it was actually an enchantment.

"No, Leandra," Uncle Gamlen's voice was frustrated. "Le-an-dra!"

Hawke smiled at her uncle's exasperation and was tempted to linger in the foyer while he attempted to communicate with Sandal. Taking pity on the poor man, she entered the high-ceilinged hall where Gamlen and Sandal spoke circles around one another.

"What's wrong, Uncle?"

"There you are!" Gamlen seemed relieved to see Hawke, even more relieved to not have to try to speak with Sandal any longer. "Where is your mother? Is she feeling alright?"

"I'm sure she is fine," Hawke assured him, wondering if he had visited the Hanged Man before stopping by the estate. "Why wouldn't she be?"

* * *

><p><strong>[cue dramatic music]<strong>

**I really hope to get this tooth taken care of soon because I want to be able to devote as much clear-headed attention as I can to this. Again, I apologize if this sucks. I lack any ability to make responsible decisions at this point. And I truly hate it when people blame their shitty writing on alcohol/drugs, but in this instance, I'm not getting smashed for funsies and then inflicting my horrible writing on the rest of the world. I have a legitimate reason for using the meds, but perhaps I shouldn't write until I'm off of them...**

**Anygay, please review. Pretty please. It only takes a second. And for every review you leave, a kitten is saved by flying monkeys.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Phew. Well, good news. All four of my wisdom teeth have been removed. More good news, I am still medicated. Huzzah!**

**This chapter was somewhat of a bitch to write, hopefully however, I succeeded in making this chapter MY bitch. Lastly, because I'm still all kind of fucked up and junk, I apologize for any mistakes and suckage. **

**As always, reviews are most welcome, and I am not above begging for them.**

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><p>"<em>His magic was the only thing keeping her alive. I'm so sorry."<em> Merrill's words echoed in Hawke's ears.

Her mother had been broken. Literally more than figuratively, Leandra Amell Hawke ceased to exist. Only shattered fragments of the woman had been pieced back together, crudely stitched and hastily fashioned into a gruesome monstrosity. It was her head… Her face, the high sculpted cheekbones that all of her children had inherited. The slender nose and blue eyes that Hawke had gotten from her; the twins had taken more after their father in those two respects.

Leandra claimed that the blue eyes came from her own father, Hawke's grandfather. He had the most intense blue eyes ever seen north of the Waking Sea. But now, Leandra's eyes were already clouded, the blue obscured by the sick milky film of the long dead, even as she still spoke to Hawke.

Her body, no it wasn't her body, had slumped into Hawke's arms. Delicately, Hawke had lowered herself to her knees, her mother cradled in her lap. Just like she had held Merrill not two nights prior. With one arm around Mother's shoulders, she supported her upper body. With the other, she held the hand that did not belong to her mother. It was the hand of another woman attached to the incredibly frail body of yet another woman, a body who had Mother's face.

How many women had been killed? How many pieces had been stitched together to create the woman that now lay limp and dying in her arms, her mother?

"_Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is? Love."_

What should have been Quentin's tragedy had become a grisly atrocity. It was truly an abomination, beyond the meaning of the word that the Templars or Chantry used. So consumed by the loss of his wife, Quentin had undertook to regain his wife by any means necessary, no matter the consequence or cost. In his arrogance and selfishness, he defiled the sanctity of life, of the natural order. He used blood magic. He became so obsessed by his power, he never stopped to consider not if he could resurrect his beloved, but whether or not he should.

Quentin forsook his humanity in order to regain his lost love.

The end result was perversion beyond measure or comprehension. The _thing_ that lay in Hawke's arms was not her mother, though it bore her face, her voice. In the end, Quentin was no more human than his creation, his monster.

Hawke had squeezed the hand that did not belong to Leandra and with conscious effort, smiled down. She had to be strong for Mother; she would not let her disgust or fear or hurt show on her face. With all the years of carefully mastered discipline, she erased those emotions from her features. Let the last thing her mother saw in this world be a kind face, a face of true love.

"_I'm going to see Carver again… and your father. But you'll be here alone."_

Alone.

She was only alone because of her own doing. Had she been more attentive, she could have kept Carver from throwing himself at that damn ogre. Had she been a better sister in the first place, he might have not charged off like a damn hero. She should have taken Bethany with her into the Deep Roads. She had always been so terrified of the Templars, of being dragged to the Circle. Why hadn't she just brought Bethany with her? And Mother. She had spent the last four years at the beck and call of every citizen of Kirkwall, where had she been when her mother needed her most? Why hadn't she paid more attention? Why had she not tried harder to find Emeric's killer?

Now she was truly alone.

Mother had reassured her even as she lay dying.

"_My little girl has become so strong. I love you. You've always made me so proud."_

Hawke had wanted to shake her mother, to tell her that she was still her little girl, not so grown yet that she did not need her mother, and that the only reason she was strong was because she and father had made her strong. They had raised her to be a woman that they could be proud of. The only reason she was the woman she was, was because she had grown up with an incredible, compassionate Mother and a devoted Father that loved her.

It was because of them that she had grown up, first a soldier in the King's army, then struggled from penniless refugee to respected noble. They had taught her how to be kind to others, to give without expecting it in return. It was Father who had taught her the value of strength beyond the physical, that a good woman did what was right not always by the sword, but by a hand of friendship.

Mother had taught her that it was not her duty to end all the suffering of the world, but to rise up whenever occasion afforded it to end what evil she could, that perhaps one day Hawke's own children might have a chance to live in a world a little better.

Everything that was good and decent about Hawke came from her parents, from her family. She wanted to tell her Mother that.

Hawke wanted to tell Mother all of these things, to thank her for molding her into the woman that she was.

But it was too late now. Whatever life had sustained Leandra ebbed away much too quickly, and she was gone.

Hawke had lifted the lifeless body in her arms, prepared to carry her back to the estate. Aveline had stopped her with a gentle hand. There were many bodies in Quentin's domicile, and the woman Hawke bore in her arms was not entirely Leandra.

Nodding, Hawke had understood the guard captain's assurances that Leandra and the other women would be properly cared for by her guards. So she had laid Mother on a table, smoothed a few errant strands of hair from her face. Mother had always carried herself so poised, with the graceful dignity of the Amell nobility.

In some part of her mind, she had been vaguely aware of her companions' words, but if she responded, she could not remember.

Hawke had returned to the estate. Bodahn and Sandal had retired for the night, thankfully. Even Orana, who had developed a habit of waiting up for Hawke to return, had given up and gone to sleep.

The fire still smoldered in the main hall. Leandra had been fond of standing next to it, even when the weather was warm; she had said it reminded her of the fireplace in Lothering where the family had spent their evenings, before Malcom Hawke had died.

Less than two weeks ago, they had been standing in front of that very fireplace; Mother had been inquiring, none too subtly, about Hawke's potential suitors. Not that she was rushing her daughter, but she had said she wanted Hawke to find someone who made her as happy as Malcom had made her. And she would not mind a few grandchildren while she was still young enough to enjoy them. She longed for the sound of children playing to fill the Amell Estate again.

Hawke had indulged Mother, teasing her that with so many suitors, how could she possibly choose just one?

Covered in blood and grit and the grisly remnants of Quentin, Hawke had quietly stolen up the stairs to wash and change. Her hand passed over the crude etching Isabela had made in the railing. Mother had covered her mouth with one hand and attempted to muffle a laugh when she had first seen the pornographic etching.

"While I applaud your pirate's effort, she would benefit from drawing lessons, I believe." Mother had said and waved off Bodahn's offers to sand the carving down and repaint the railing, claiming it added a bit of Hawke flair to the Amell Estate.

Hawke had washed herself thoroughly, not bothering to wait for the water to heat, hoping that a cold, vigorous scrub might help clear her mind. She felt numb, her thoughts disjointed and erratic. It was if she could only hear an echo of her own thoughts. She was aware of her surroundings only in the vaguest manner, her senses dulled. Every action was automatic, thoughtless: washing herself, dressing in the silk finery she preferred when at home, even building a fire in the study, even though she wasn't cold.

There had been nothing left to do but sit and wait for Uncle Gamlen.

Pulling up a chair in front of the fire, she sat with her elbows resting on her knees, staring into the fire without seeing it.

Last week, they had sat in the seldom-used dining room for a family dinner. That was what Mother had called their semi-regular dinners where she invited all of Hawke's companions, as well as Bodahn and Sandal and now Orana, to eat a meal together.

Leandra was enchanted with Hawke's companions and the thrilling adventures they undertook, was interested in hearing the tales of Hawke's exploits and sharing in that part of her eldest daughter's life. Hawke supposed that it was also loneliness that prompted these dinners. The only child left for her to fuss over, Hawke was frequently gone. Her companions became additional targets of her maternal graces.

She would encourage Merrill to eat more, lamenting over how skinny she looked, and did Hawke bring her enough food? She would tell Anders how much he reminded her of Malcolm, that they shared the same kind eyes and fierceness of heart. How fine of a man Donnic seemed, and she wished many years of happiness and several healthy children to Aveline. And how lonely Fenris must be all alone in that mansion by himself, why did he not stop by more often? Did Varric ever consider committing his stories to parchment; it was a shame that only the patrons of the Hanged Man were privy to his tales. And would Isabela tell that story about the Siren's Call again? It was so thrilling to have a real pirate at her table.

"_My little girl has become so strong…"_

Again, Mother's words replayed themselves in Hawke's mind. Strong.

She was strong when Gamlen finally arrived, strong when she had to be the one to tell her uncle that his sister was dead. She was strong when he lost his temper, accusing Hawke of letting Mother die, of not being fast enough or strong enough or smart enough to save her. Gamlen was only reacting out of his grief; he was a sad, broken man who had just lost his last immediate family member.

Hawke had never been close with her uncle, but she made every attempt to console him. She felt detached, barely cognizant of her own words as she told him that Mother was dead. She assured him that why was unimportant, that it was best if he did not know the manner of her death, that he could take comfort that the man responsible for her death had been slain at Hawke's hand.

Her voice was monotone, as if she were reciting facts committed to memory. She would be unwavering and strong for Gamlen and Bethany, because Mother asked her to, because someone had to be. Because there was no Mother anymore, no comforting embrace to be drawn into, no moment of weakness Hawke could allow herself. For the first time in her life, truly, Hawke had to stand on her own, without her mother to run to, without her mother to tell her that it would be alright.

"Take care of yourself, my dear," Her uncle had said, and then he was gone.

And Hawke was alone.

* * *

><p>The Amell Estate was uncharacteristically quiet, even for such a late hour.<p>

Well, it was actually more of an early hour when Merrill finally slipped into the estate. The sky was purple, dawn beginning to creep ahead of the sunrise. Aveline had stationed herself in front of the fire in the main hall, absently scratching Hawke's giant mabari, Nuts, behind the ears.

The guard captain had been the first to return to Hawke, once she and her guards had respectfully removed the remains of Quentin's victims from his hovel. The big woman's shoulders slumped; she seemed smaller than the elf would have ever believed possible. She seemed defeated.

Aveline was Hawke's best friend; she had come from Ferelden with Hawke and Bethany and Leandra. She was like Hawke's redheaded big sister, as much a part of the family as anyone. Losing Leandra must have been like losing a mother all over again for Aveline.

The thought only deepened Merrill's melancholy. Leandra had been so nice to her, to everyone. Her death hurt everyone so badly. Swallowing, she cleared her throat to announce her presence. The last thing she wanted was to startle Aveline into swinging that massive sword of hers.

"Merrill," Aveline greeted stonily, crossing her arms over her chest and pulling back from the hearth, but still not looking at Merrill.

No one would talk to Merrill after leaving Quentin's hovel but Varric and Isabela. Fenris had grumbled something about vipers and monsters and this was to be expected. Anders had yelled at her as if she had been the one that caused Leandra's death, as if she had been the one to kill her. He said such awful, hateful things until Isabela shoved him away and yelled back at him.

They all looked at her like she was in some way responsible for what happened to Leandra. Because Quentin was a blood mage capable of such atrocities, then Merrill as a blood mage must be capable of the same thing.

She couldn't bear it if Hawke thought that; she had to make sure that she didn't. She had to tell Hawke that she was sorry, that she had loved Leandra too and would have never done anything to hurt her. She needed Hawke to know that she did not have to be alone, that Merrill might never have really known her own mother, but she did know what it was like to feel all alone. She could help her feel less alone right now.

There was also the possibility that Hawke might yell at her like Anders, or push her away, and that would break Merrill, devastate her. But she had made a decision. It was not about what she felt right now; it was about Hawke. She loved Hawke, and because she loved her, she was going to try and be there for her, to be her friend when Hawke probably needed someone the most, no matter what the consequences might be.

"I know she might not want to see anyone right now, Aveline," Merrill blurted, clasping her hands in front of her, fidgeting. "But whenever I feel alone, Hawke always tries to make me feel better. She needs to know she isn't alone. Of course she knows she has you and Bodahn. Well and Sandal of course but…"

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, Aveline sighed. "I can't decide who I would rather try to console Hawke right now. A whore that will only break her heart or a blood mage of the same ilk that murdered her mother. The Maker does have a sense of humor."

"I-" Merrill flushed angrily; she was tired of people comparing her to Quentin. She would never hurt anyone! Didn't they know that? Didn't anyone know that? It was like Pol all over again; everyone treated her like she was dangerous, like she might turn into a mindless monster any moment.

"I know you think you'd never hurt anyone, Merrill." Aveline narrowed her eyes at the elf. Her voice always had an authoritative tone, like the Keeper's. She always sounded as if she were mothering everyone when she spoke. "I am sure no one turns to blood magic thinking they'll end up an indiscriminate killer, but what you are dealing with is evil. And dangerous."

"I am not here to talk about my decisions, Aveline." Merrill surprised herself at how confident she sounded. "I will live with the consequences of my choices, just like everyone else does. Right now, I want to be here for Hawke."

Nuts shoved his massive head against Aveline's thigh, as if urging her to cave in. "Oh, alright." She began scratching the hound behind his ears again. "But Merrill, if you hurt her… no demon will keep you safe."

* * *

><p>The only light in Hawke's room was from the fire place where a fire burned low, washing the room in dim orange light. The rogue sat on the edge of her bed, elbows resting on her knees, intense blue eyes studying a nonexistent spot on the floor. She did not stir when Merrill slipped into the room, quietly shut the door behind her.<p>

Merrill was surprised at the lack of butterflies in her stomach; normally whenever she was around the rogue, her stomach fluttered and her chest seemed too light. She almost always rambled, people made her nervous. But Hawke made it even worse. Tonight it was different though. She felt calm, perhaps even a bit confident. Because it wasn't about her or how she felt about Hawke or anything like that. Hawke had just lost her mother; she needed a friend, she needed support, and Merrill was determined to be that support for her. How she felt didn't matter.

"_Ir abelas, ma vhenan."_ She ventured softly, hoping that if Hawke did not understand the words, she might understand the sentiment.

"I'm glad you're here, Merrill." Hawke hadn't moved, hadn't so much as glimpsed at her, but Merrill felt she was being genuine.

"You are?"

"Quentin used dark magic, just like you do. It turned him into a monster." The rogue said neutrally. She was neither disdainful nor sympathetic, simply stating a truth. For the first time, since the elf had entered the room, Hawke turned her face towards her, and it was if the very air in Merrill's lungs turned to ice.

It was like the first time she had seen the rogue on Sundermount, the first time Hawke had approached her on the mountain. At first, Merrill had been unnerved by how stern she looked, her expression flinty and unreadable, in a way that made the Keeper's usually severe countenance seem warm and inviting. How beautiful Hawke was then, unruly hair being toyed with by a mischievous mountain breeze. Her firm jaw set and eyes blazing as brightly as blue fire, betraying nothing as she studied Merrill, but then she had spoken. She was not as terrifying as her appearance told; she had been kind, considerate even through Merrill's rambling, nervous introduction.

When she looked at Merrill now, she appeared as exactly as she had then. A face so beautiful in its sternness, its icy façade, belied by the gentle woman underneath it. Only tonight, underneath her stoicism, deep within those burning blue eyes, was grief. Though it did not show on her features or in her voice, it was there as tangible as tears, as palpable as flesh.

Her heart wrenched in her chest, ached for Hawke's loss. There was nothing more she wished for than to reach out to the rogue, take her in her arms and chase away all the bad feelings, all the pain that consumed her. She loved Hawke and to see her so oddly beautiful in her suffering, was agonizing. If there had been a spell, even blood magic, to take Hawke's pain away and bear it herself, Merrill would have performed it without a second thought.

When Hawke's words finally registered, they did so with a sting. "It's not the same! The magic is just a tool. He used it for something terrible."

"Not just magic. Blood magic." Hawke stood. Average height for a female human, she still towered over Merrill by a full head.

"I'm using magic to help my people. It's not the same at all."

"You cannot do evil to a good ends, Merrill."

"Blood magic isn't evil, not really. By itself it is just like any other magic." Merrill fought the flare of her temper. The same argument. Again and again. She had come to offer solace to her friend, and yet again she felt herself being dragged into the same argument they always had.

"No. But neither is drinking, until the ale or whiskey consumes a person until they cannot live without it and they become a drunkard, their lives destroyed because all they care about is the drink. They lose their jobs, their families, everything because of the drink. Blood magic is like that. I'm certain Quentin was a good man once too. It will consume you, Merrill." Emotion finally wheedled its way into Hawke's voice, only it wasn't the anger that Merrill expected. Her voice was… hurt, plaintive.

Taken aback, Merrill risked a glance at Hawke, made eye contact. "I won't let that happen." She promised Hawke with conviction. She reached for the rogue's hand and held it. "I promise."

A thin, sardonic smile found its way onto Hawke's lips and she pulled her hand away. "Just like a drunk; you think you can control it but you can't." With a swiftness born of natural talent and constant training, she reached up and framed Merrill's face in her hands, pulling her closer until the top of the elf's head just barely touched her chin. "It will consume you. I won't watch you destroy yourself, Merrill. I can't. I can't watch while everything I love about you, the purity, the goodness, is consumed. I can't. I'm sorry." The words broke into a ragged whisper.

Merrill felt a second rending in her chest that had nothing to do with the death of Leandra as Hawke pressed her lips softly against her brow. The kiss was gentle and agonizing. Hawke's lips were cool, so soft; they lingered for what seemed like an eternity before the rogue withdrew and she turned her back to Merrill.

"Please go."

Fighting a rising swell of tears that constricted in her throat, Merrill nodded and began backing towards the door. "I'm really sorry about your mother, Hawke."

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><p>The passing of time ceased to have meaning for Hawke. It might have been moments or hours. It seemed like weeks had passed since she had found Mother in that den of… horrors. But it had only been the previous night, less than a day had passed.<p>

And yet it seemed that only moments had passed since Merrill had hurriedly backed out of her room, yet bright day light now streamed passed the cracks in the curtains covering the windows.

The conversation with Merrill had temporarily cracked the numb shell Hawke felt encasing her. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt the elf, but blood magic had already robbed her of Mother. The thought of losing Merrill to it as well was unbearable. Worse than becoming a twisted abomination like Mother, a puppet of flesh, would be for Merrill to become like Quentin, for her to lose everything that made her so wonderful, so innocent. Blood magic would destroy that, destroy all that Hawke loved about her, would turn her into the soulless monster Quentin had become.

She swore to an oath to herself. She had not been able to save Mother, but she would not fail again. She would die before allowing Merrill to fall victim to blood magic.

"I… uh, feel I should say… something."

Hawke had sensed the pirate when she first slipped into the room; for as loud and boisterous as Isabela was, she could be subtle when she wanted. "It's okay. I know you're not good at… emotional stuff."

Isabela sighed, as if relieved that Hawke acknowledged that fact for her, and rounded the bed to sit next to her. "At least your mother loved you. Not everyone can say that. Leandra was a lovely woman. She knew what I was, what I am, but she never treated me differently for it. For a noble, she wasn't all tight-assed. I liked her. Although for some odd reason, she suggested I take up drawing lessons."

"I suppose this is what it is like to feel like an orphan." In truth, Hawke didn't feel anything. Only the throbbing numbness. Her heart beating hollowly, as if there were no blood in her, and though empty, it simply kept beating.

"Family's not just the people you're related to by blood. There are other people that care about you." Isabela followed Hawke's gaze to the hearth, to where the fire had burned itself to a few shuddering orange embers. "Like… Aveline."

"My mother told me once that a measure of a person wasn't their wealth or their courage. It wasn't the acts of heroism or the valiant stories that were told of them. The true worth of an individual was in the people they loved, and the people that loved them." Leandra had told her children that many times. The last time she had said it had been when they buried Malcolm Hawke. It wasn't much of a funeral; they couldn't afford to bring too much attention to the family without risking Bethany's safety. Only the family had been in attendance. A quiet funeral for an apostate, a wonderful man, a loving father and husband.

The weight of the moment seemed to make Isabela uncomfortable, and she reached for Hawke's hand and squeezed it. "Well, if that's the case, you're a bloody hero, Hawke. All of Kirkwall loves you, and you've got a sodding stack of valiant tales to your name to boot."

Hawke didn't let Isabela take away her hand; instead her eyes sought the pirate's. "Everyone thinks I'm a hero, Isabela." The pirate's eyes were amber, an almost unnatural hue of honeyed golden brown.

"_My little girl has become so strong…"_

"But I'm not strong." Hawke felt her voice break and didn't care, felt the tears spill unchecked down her cheeks. "All I want is my mother to hold me like she did when I was little, and tell me that it will all be okay, that everything will be alright."

It would never happen again. Her mother would never again wrap her arms around her daughter and hold her, rock her soothingly and reassure her that monsters weren't real, that nothing could harm her, that no matter how hard things were, that everything would turn out okay. Her mother was gone forever. How could anything be okay ever again?

The pirate tensed, but slowly reached out and pulled the sobbing woman into her arms, gingerly stroking her hair. Hawke sobbed harshly, unceasingly; it seemed as though she would never stop, that she would be locked in this moment forever, paralyzed by grief and weeping for her mother, and still Isabela held her.

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><p><strong>Since I've been in a lovely hydrocodone stupor for the past week, I've been remiss at responding to reviews, but I do want to deeply thank everyone for all the lovely reviews and wonderful words of encouragement y'all have left me. I really appreciate it. Hearing that y'all like this story motivates me to keep on plugging away at it. <strong>

**Also, if anyone is willing to beta or let me bounce ideas off of them, shoot me a message. Since I write and copy-edit professionally, I'm kind of an arrogant ass about publishing my work without letting another pair of eyes run over it, but no one is immune to the evils of grammar goblins. **

**I really enjoyed writing this chapter, despite it being a bit heavy with the grief and death aspects. It's an intense topic to tackle, but I sincerely enjoyed the challenge and hope I did it justice. **

**Lastly, this week and this week only, when you leave a review, I will dispatch an entire fleet of invisible penguins to spread love and good cheer to you and a person of your choice. So act now before the penguin fleets are gone! Please review. :-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**About damn time, phew. I tried to upload this all yesterday but I guess was being ornery. Ah well. Also, I am changing the characters on this. Because Isabela is becoming more of a key character to this and I'm sure most people will still assume that since this is a DA2 story, Hawke is in this as well. Just a heads up.**

**Thanks for all the well wishes; I'm still recovering from the surgery, but thankfully I haven't tired of applesauce and mashed potatoes. And thank you for all the reviews and favorites. I'm sorry for the delay in publishing. The next chapter will be much swifter in coming.**

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><p>It was a warm, pleasant spring afternoon when they buried Leandra. The balmy wind smelled of cut grass and fresh blooming flowers, even in Kirkwall's cemetery. The sky was a cool, subdued blue, and the sun was kind even at midday. Fluffy, playful clouds raced one another across the sky, out to sea.<p>

Despite Aveline's best efforts to keep the matter as small and private an affair as possible, there were still more people present than Hawke would have liked, Isabela could tell. There was more than a fair share of nobles, the leading members of every noble house attended. Leandra Amell was nobility, after all, and even the nobility that wasn't necessarily friendly with the family was crafty enough to attend for political reasons. Anyone who was not blind or deaf would know that Hawke was a rising force in Kirkwall, the hand of the Viscount, a voice of influence.

Of course, all of the companions were present, to include Donnic, Bodahn and absent-looking Sandal, and Orana. Two Templars stood a respectful distance behind Bethany, who was allowed to attend only after Hawke personally contacted the Viscount and requested a favor. Even still, Gamlen separated the two sisters, a physical barrier to the already immense emotional gulf between them.

A Chantry sister spoke one of the many dreary canticles, of course. Something about the Maker and his eternal bride, but Isabela was not paying attention. She stationed herself close to Merrill, who had been uncharacteristically silent on their way to the burial.

Trying to reassure the Dalish elf, Isabela wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Normally, Isabela shied away from any physical contact that wasn't sexual in nature. But, sod it all, nothing about the past few days had been "normal." First of all, if anything had been normal, she wouldn't have spent the better half of an entire day consoling Hawke as she grieved Leandra. With a gentle embrace, for the love of Andraste's sacred tits! There were only two types of comfort Isabela offered: the kind that came in a bottle, or the sort that involved no clothes and quick tumble.

Nothing seemed "normal," lately, and it made Isabela's skin itch in a way that she could not scratch. She wasn't an emotional person; feelings were not to be trusted. They were sneakier than any rogue and twice as deceitful. They were messy things that clouded good judgment and reason. Usually, the pirate could laugh off any feeling with a clever remark and good swallow of rum, perhaps a quick lay for good measure.

It was different with Merrill. She had a weak spot for the elf the moment they had met. She was so cute and innocent, so shy and oblivious. She was like a kitten, often lost, physically as well as metaphorically. There was not a single cruel bone in her slight body; Isabela believed Merrill to be utterly incapable of meanness, towards anyone, even Fenris who even in the best of times treated the elf with naked contempt.

She tapped into a vein of protectiveness in her that Isabela had not known herself to even possess. There was a time when she had viewed the world as Merrill did, through a lens of naiveté, believing the best about people, having hope in the endless possibility that life offered. Then the pirate had seen all the harshness and cruelty the world truly had, experienced some of the worst aspects of humanity. She was jaded by her experiences, warped into a thief and liar simply so she could survive.

She felt a relentless drive to protect Merrill from that, to defend her from a world that devoured innocence and goodness and left only bitterness in its wake. No one had protected her when she had been a child sold into marriage. Had someone been there, someone like—

No, that was a dangerous thought. A thought she would never have allowed herself under _normal_ circumstances.

As if Merrill managing to wheedle her way past Isabela's defenses wasn't bad enough, Hawke had managed to slip through as well. Hawke was good to her, treated her with a respect that Isabela was neither accustomed to nor deserved, in her opinion. For all her do-gooding, bleeding heart nonsense, she never judged the pirate, never criticized who she was or what she did. And despite rivaling Aveline for moral integrity, the rogue could be downright _fun_ at times. The least Isabela could do was be there for her friend when her mother had died. She would do no less for Merrill.

Then why did cradling the rogue in her arms while she wept for her mother make her want scamper away like a trapped squirrel? The intimacy of that moment had caused a tempest of panic within the pirate, stronger than any she had ever weathered on the seas, and it strained her restraint not to flee as Hawke had clung to her as if drowning.

A small voice that Isabela rarely heeded whispered in the back of her mind. Merrill had no expectations with Isabela; she took what she was given and asked for nothing more, accepted the pirate at face value without question. Hawke expected more from her; she had even had the nerve to say once that she believed Isabela was better than she gave herself credit for. Shaking her head, Isabela hushed the tiny voice of truth.

She gazed at the rogue across the crowd. Hawke hadn't worn armor that day, which was quite shocking in its rarity. In fact, she had only seen her wearing either armor or that silly finery she wore whenever she was at home. Or, well, nothing at all. To see her dressed so plainly was intriguing.

Hawke wore tan breeches, fitted skin-tight to her toned legs and thighs, accompanied by knee-high riding boots. In contrast, the crisp, white tunic she wore was loose fitting with a high, starched collar. The dark crimson waistcoat she wore over the tunic was as form fitting as her trousers, straight-waisted, also with a high collar.

It wasn't as flashy as what most of the other nobles wore; she wore no tie or hat or garish, bright colors. But none of that suited Hawke, who was reserved on the best of days. As understated as the dress was, it made Hawke look like every inch the noble she was. Regal and distinguished, even with her unruly mop of raven hair falling in her eyes. Well-mannered and austere, although feral intensity perpetually lurked in her eyes. The daughter of nobility, despite the work-hardened callouses on her hands. Today, she was Amell side of her lineage. Instead of the wry rogue who wasn't averse to cutting throats or getting her own hands dirty or working for every sovereign she had.

Merrill was watching Hawke too, and with that realization, Isabela gave the elf's shoulders a squeeze.

Finally, the service ended. The nobles lined up to offer Hawke their condolences, and dutifully, Hawke received them with polite gratitude.

"Come on, Kitten. Let's get out of here." Isabela urged. This seemed to be a moment of politics, and while Hawke was adept at fitting the role when matters dictated it, a pirate and an elf had no place in such things.

Merrill nodded wordlessly and allowed Isabela to guide her out of the cemetery onto the quite streets of Hightown.

"Why were all those people there? I never knew Leandra knew that many people; she was always at home, standing in front of the fireplace when I stopped by to water Hawke's plants. How did she have time for so many friends?" Merrill asked quietly, once they had made it to the busier, dustier streets of Lowtown.

Isabela snorted. "Oh, Kitten. Most of those people wouldn't know Leandra if they saw her. They only went to the burial to be nice, to get themselves in Hawke's good graces."

The elf seemed to consider it for a moment and then shook her head. "Humans are so strange. I suppose that is why unions between humans and Dalish are forbidden."

If that wasn't a red flag clearly indicating the root of Merrill's mood, Isabela would eat her favorite hat, and she did love her hats. "Bugger all, Merrill. Let's get a bottle of the Hanged Man's best swill and go to my room. Oh no, not like that, you goose!" For the first time in days, Isabela laughed heartily at the sidelong, nervous frown Merrill shot her. "Honestly, Kitten, you're so sweet you could put sugar out of business."

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><p>There was spot as far west as one could travel on the Wounded Coast without swimming that Hawke had discovered during her second year in Kirkwall. It was a knobby plateau connected only to the rest of the coast by a narrow strip of beach. It was an ugly stretch of sand and rock marked by a few dying trees and ragged bushes, well deserving of the appellation of "wounded." Crumbling stone facades told of a human presence long gone, probably for centuries. It jutted into the water, the last bit of the Free Marches defying the Waking Sea.<p>

It was the same spot they had "rescued" the Viscount's son from. How many years ago was that now? Hawke couldn't remember; Bethany had still been with them.

Standing at the very edge of the plateau, she gazed down at the water crashing against the rocks below, earth and water locked in an eternal battle that little by little over the centuries, the earth would lose. The sea would reclaim this place one day, long after Hawke was gone. She squinted into the sun.

She had wanted to be alone after leaving the cemetery. Bethany would barely speak to her, giving her only terse replies and indifferent glares. They regarded each other with the same stiff civility and formality that Hawke spoke to the attending nobility with after the ceremony, accepting their condolences. Bethany had not stayed for that part. As soon as the service concluded, her Templars escorted her back to the Gallows, leaving Hawke to deal with everything.

Part of her wanted to grab her little sister and shake her, but another more dominant part could not fault Bethany for still being angry with her.

After the cemetery had emptied save for herself and Aveline and Donnic, Hawke had wanted to be alone.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to come back to the house? Donnic can make us dinner. He manages to burn almost anything, but his stew is passable." Aveline attempted to lighten the mood, and her husband shot her a mock wounded look.

"Thanks, Aveline. I'm sure Donnic's stew is more than passable, but I think I'd just rather be alone right now." Hawke neglected to mention that she hadn't planned on returning home, where she most certainly would not be alone, not now that she had more servants than family members. Aveline would have only been concerned if she knew Hawke was wandering the Free Marches alone and relatively unarmed.

The wind had the bite of salt, the warmth of late afternoon. Hawke closed her eyes and let the sun smile down on her upturned face. She never had any particular affinity for the sea; she wasn't like Isabela in that way. But she enjoyed this spot on the coast, so isolated and beautiful without the complications of people or the problems of a city.

She had been barely been out of adolescence a few scant years when she had first reached Kirkwall. Things seemed so much more exciting then, so much easier. She was a refugee, not out to change anything but her own fortune. Each task, every job was an adventure, and she and her companions ploughed through them with reckless enthusiasm. Sure, she had helped others along the way, even if there wasn't any profit in it but it was quite simply the right thing to do. Days were spent earning coin and laughing and fighting, and nights were spent at the Hanged Man and occasionally the Blooming Rose. Sometimes drinking, sometimes gambling, never with any plan but to enjoy themselves and one another.

It changed after the Deep Roads Expedition. As the eldest, Hawke had always bore the brunt of responsibility in the family, but the expedition had shown her the consequences of that responsibility. She wasn't a young woman anymore, but the head of the Amell House with her mother now dead. She was a noble in her own right as well as by birth. People respected her, looked to her for advice or help. They sought her support in matters, which was why so many nobles had attended Mother's funeral. Hawke was no fool.

She looked down at herself, at the clothing she wore. It was conservative for a noble, but even she had to admit it she wore it well. When she was a child, she had run barefoot in nothing but breeches and sleeveless tunic through the fields and forests. Every night she came home with a layer of mud on her face and grass stains on her knees. She had never cared what others thought of who she was or what she looked like.

She would have been content with a nameless mercenary's life, or perhaps bought a small shop in Hightown which might provide a comfortable living for her and Bethany and Mother. A small house where she did not have to share a room with her sister and mother less than two doors down from a tavern. Comfortable, but nothing extravagant.

Now, partly thanks to Varric, Hawke was a name that all of Kirkwall seemed to know.

It was not what she had planned. But she could not pretend she was still the young Fereldan refugee, gallivanting across the Free Marches on adventures, freed by the limitless possibilities that each day offered. Others looked to her now, her companions depended on her.

"_You've always made me so proud."_

She was her mother's daughter. She would not shrink from her responsibilities nor the lot in life that fell to her.

The sky began to bruise lavender and gold as the sun retreated across the sky. Sighing, Hawke spared the sea one final wistful appraisal before heading back to the city; her family still needed her.

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><p>In all the years she had known the pirate, Merrill had not once stepped foot into Isabela's private room at the Hanged Man. Isabela visited her often enough in the Alienage, but this was the first time she had ever been invited to visit her.<p>

The room was a plain, even by Merrill's standards. There was a bed, of course, much wider than Merrill's, but the only other furniture was a table and two chairs, made of the same rough, unfinished wood as all the furniture in tavern. The only personal touch besides the bottles littering the table was a small ship inside a bottle, and Merrill remembered it as gift from Hawke, like her own wooden halla.

The thought of Hawke only caused an odd feeling to surge up through her stomach, like it was doing flip flops and tumbles before sinking, and Merrill took a long draught from the cup Isabela had set in front of her. It burned her throat and caused tears to well up in her eyes, and she coughed.

The pirate slapped her on the back until the fit of coughing passed. "Careful, Kitten, small sips are better if you're not a professional like me."

"I could never be anything like you, Isabela. You're beautiful and smart and funny. You make Hawke laugh because you say things that are clever. I can only make her laugh because I'm a bumbling fool." Merrill lamented and ignored Isabela's warning and took another large swallow of the rum. It slid down easier this time.

"Oh. So that's what the matter." Isabela leaned back in her own chair and poured more into her own cup. "Kitten, you are a million things that I could never be. And you're not a bumbling fool, and Hawke certainly doesn't think so."

"She does. She told me so." Merrill told Isabela everything that had transpired the night Leandra died, how she had went there to console her and instead, Hawke had berated her. She had been kind about it, but she still made it clear that she thought Merrill was weak, liable to become the same monstrosity that Quentin had been.

"I'm not a monster, Isabela. But it doesn't matter to Hawke. Nothing I do matters to her, all she sees is a foolish girl meddling in forces she cannot possibly understand. I know what I'm doing is dangerous, but I also _know_ what I am doing. Why doesn't anyone believe I know what I am doing?" She rubbed furiously at her forehead, where she could still feel the coolness of Hawke's lips on her brow, as if they were still there.

The kiss had only confused her. The gesture had been so tender; Merrill was certain that no one had ever touched her so intimately in all her life. But then why was Hawke still so difficult? Why couldn't she understand that everything Merrill did was for her clan? None of it seemed to make sense to Merrill.

"Hawke is just frightened for you, Kitten." Isabela sighed and leaned forward, brushing an errant lock of hair from Merrill's face and tucking it behind her ear. "Of all the people in Thedas, how did I end up as the counselor for you two? I'm lousy with feelings. You two should just strip naked. Everything is much clearer when no one is wearing any clothes."

The image of Hawke not wearing any clothes, no armor, no tunic, no small clothes… completely bare except for skin, caused Merrill to blush. Her cheeks and the tips of her ears burned, but she could not quite force the image from her mind. She imagined Hawke had a nice body, not at all lanky like an elf. Strong and muscled, her skin would probably be so smooth… She could see what the pirate meant; everything did seem much clearer when she pictured the two of them… naked.

"You've had many lovers, haven't you?"

Isabela smiled as if she were keeping a secret. "Fewer than some may think."

"But you never stay with them?"

"No, why should I?"

"But the act of love-making is so… intimate, I would think." Not that Merrill had any basis for comparison. Being the First set her apart from her clan mates, and when she began to study the Eluvian, that only separated them from her further. There had never been much of a chance for her to engage in the adolescent fumbling or the coupling that her clan mates her age seemed to do. It had never bothered her much; there were always other things to distract her, studies of what little was known of their history, lessons with the Keeper, the Eluvian.

Isabela laughed, the deep throaty laugh that Merrill found so charming. It was easy to see why everyone loved Isabela. "I don't "make love," Kitten." The pirate explained, abandoning her cup and drinking straight from the bottle. "What I do is only skin deep."

"Is it? I don't know how it could be deeper than the skin unless…" Merrill thought, blushed again. "Oh, that's an expression isn't it?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, Kitten." Isabela sobered and ran her fingers through her hair, catching the blue bandana she always wore and removing it. "You're a good person, with a good heart. Hawke doesn't approve because she's scared of what might happen to you. But you deserve to be happy, both of you. You both deserve better than me."

Merrill had never seen the pirate with her hair down before, without the blue bandana. It was very pretty, she thought. Somehow it made Isabela look younger, less like a swashbuckling pirate and more like… just a young woman. It was as if the bandana was a disguise, and Merrill had been graced with seeing Isabela's real appearance.

Shaking out her mane of dark hair, Isabela sighed again. "I am no good at emotional stuff. If I felt the way about Hawke that you do, I'd run as far away from this Maker forsaken city as a ship could carry me. But it seems to me that the two of you should stop bloody arguing and just tell each other how you feel, really listen to one another."

Chewing on her lower lip, Merrill thought about what Isabela said. "Should we both be naked when we do that?"

The pirate frowned and studied the elf's face for a moment before she realized that the question had been asked in earnest. She laughed and stood, stretching like a lazy cat. "You can keep your clothes on for that part, Kitten." Closing the distance between them, she tousled Merrill's hair affectionately. "Now, if you'll pardon me, all this mushy talk has given me an itch that needs scratching."

"Oooh, is it in between your shoulders? There is an awful spot between my shoulder blades and it is dreadfully hard to reach, especially under the chainmail." Merrill squirmed in her seat at the thought of that spot itching. "I could help you if you like?"

"No, Kitten." Isabela grinned lazily, tying her bandana back in place. "This is the type of itch only the Blooming Rose can reach."

"Oh!" Merrill reddened.

"Are you better now? You didn't drink enough to addle you? You can find your way back home?" Isabela paused at the door of her room.

Standing, Merrill smiled and followed the pirate out. "Oh, yes, thank you Isabela! You're so good to me. I'll be fine, thank you. I'm certain that I can find my way." Isabela's advice had quelled the uncertainty left by Hawke's kiss and fueled her with determination. And the drink had left her feeling pleasantly warm and heady. Yes, she was sure of herself now.

Merrill did not mention she had no intention of going home, not now.

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><p><strong>Eh. I am not thrilled with this chapter, but it is what it is. There about ten different drafts and I don't like but this one. I'll redeem myself in the next chapter.<strong>

**Next chapter... shit gets real. Until then, my friends...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Y'all ain't ready. I'm not ready. Shit.**

**This is to make up for the lengthy break between chapters. Thank you all so much. **

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><p>The writing desk was a clutter of letters and messages, especially today with the flood of condolences being offered. No matter how many times Hawke managed to read through them all, the desk never seemed to become any more organized. The Viscount was requesting her presence again and that never boded well. More inevitable problems with the Qunari, most likely.<p>

Sighing, Hawke buried the Viscount's message under the stack of letters. How fast would this city spiral into chaos if she abandoned everyone to their own devices and stopped struggling to maintain the balance?

She opened the next message and immediately recognized Anders' hurried scrawl. Skimming the letter, she pursed her lips. That man would be the death of her. She wasn't indifferent to the Mage's plight, far from it. The injustice of the Circle was something she readily acknowledged. If there were a way to break Bethany out of the Gallows without bringing the full wrath of the entire Templar Order on them all, she would do so without a moment's hesitation. But Anders' conviction in his beliefs had been steadily growing more and more militant as the years passed.

He wanted her to visit his clinic in Darktown, whenever she had the chance. He had finished the latest chapter of his manifesto and wished to give her a copy for review. His note said he would have sent it but feared its interception by "questionable parties."

Hours had passed since she returned from the coast, to an unnaturally quiet house. Sandal and Nuts were playing quietly on the rug in front of the fire. Bodahn had busied himself with cleaning, and Maker only knew where Orana was. Life had to move on.

Not bothering to change or don armor, Hawke at least took the precaution of tucking a knife into her boot and her daggers into her belt. It was plain foolish to traipse around Darktown completely unarmed, even if her face there was familiar now and everyone knew that harassing her usually meant a painful, untimely death. Bidding Sandal and Nuts farewell, she left her estate for the clinic.

Perhaps Anders could be cajoled into relating more tales about her cousin or his time as a Warden. He hardly ever wanted to simply talk anymore; Justice was an absolute killjoy, and all Anders seemed to want to talk about these days were Mages and Templars.

Hawke took a shortcut through an alley. Perhaps she could convince him to come to the Hanged Man, like the old days and join her and Isabela and Varric in a few drinks and leave the fate of the Mages until tomorrow. Yes, the fate of Kirkwall, the Qunari, the Mages and Templars could wait until morning certainly.

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><p>She should have stopped by her house to pick up her ball of twine before trying to make it all the way to Hightown by herself. Now, Merrill was utterly and hopelessly lost. She tried retracing her steps, but it only led her deeper and deeper into Darktown. The elves there looked at her funny, with empty, hollow eyes. Everyone in Darktown had such empty, sad eyes. She wondered if it was because it was so dark there that their eyes had simply adjusted to always being in such dim, drab light.<p>

Isabela would be cross with her, so would Varric and Hawke if they knew she was wandering around any part of Kirkwall at night by herself, let alone Darktown. But it wasn't her fault, not really. She could wander the forests and meadows all day and always manage to find her way back to the clan. But the city was so confusing, every building and street looked exactly the same. Every corner and every alleyway was just as familiar as the last one, so how was she supposed to know where to turn?

As loathe as she was to admit it, there was only one option unless she wanted to spend the night wandering until she found her way back to the Alienage. Anders's clinic was in Darktown, if she could just manage to find it, she could have him show her the way to Hightown. He would probably frown a lot and be patronizing and exasperated with her, but he would at least show her where to go.

She could bear his self-righteousness condescension in exchange for his help. Besides, Hawke would be very cross with him if she found out that he abandoned Merrill in Darktown. He'd help her if only to show off to Hawke.

Merrill still had not figured out what she planned on telling Hawke once she finally managed to reach her estate. "I love you," seemed like the obvious choice, but she had not asked Isabela if that might be too direct? It had seemed so easy when Isabela explained it. "You should stop bloody arguing and just tell each other how you feel, really listen to one another."

It was a pity she hadn't thought to ask the pirate how to actually do that.

Whimpering, Merrill ducked behind a crate to pick a sharp rock out of her foot. One of these days she would get shoes with soles. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of crimson, a bright color in the dreariness of these slums. She straightened just in time to see Hawke turn the corner. The Creators seemed to be smiling on her this evening. Perhaps she wouldn't have to go to Anders after all; he was so grumpy.

Wiping the bottom of her foot, Merrill ran after the rogue and called out for her, but she had already gone into the doorway with the lamp above it, Anders' clinic. Perhaps she could just wait outside his door until she came out. She did not want to interrupt whatever business she had with him; it would only make the other mage more surly. Yes, she'd wait outside so she wouldn't miss Hawke and then walk with her back to Hightown. It would be a glorious opportunity to be alone with her.

She frowned, as Anders knelt in the doorway, setting a saucer right outside his door. And people thought things that she did were strange. Waiting until both Anders and Hawke disappeared inside, Merrill quietly sidled up to the door and settled herself in between a barrel and a crate where she couldn't be seen. There were advantages to being small even for an elf.

"You know, I've been meaning to thank you." Anders' strong voice drifted past the open door. He sounded gentle when he wasn't all glowing and Justice-y, Merrill thought, sensitive even. "You don't need to stick your neck out for the Mages here, but you have."

"Bethany was a Mage. Perhaps if I had stuck my neck out a little more, she wouldn't be in the Gallows now." Hawke's voice joined his, and the sorrow that laced her voice caused Merrill's heart to ache. She had tried to comfort Hawke when Bethany had been taken by the Templars, but the elder Hawke was consumed by guilt, and accepted Merrill's words with only a silent, indifferent nod. Today had been the first time the sisters had seen each other since then, and they had barely exchanged a word at their mother's burial. It was sad really; Bethany was the only family Hawke had left, and she was locked away, in the same city but yet so very far away.

"One day, we'll make a world where your sister can be free again."

"It kills me to think of the Templars locking up you or Merrill. You all are the only family I have left."

Merrill colored at Hawke's admission, and realized that it wasn't meant for her to hear. She should go. It didn't feel right listening to their conversation like a spy. She would wait a little further away, where she was out of earshot but still would not miss Hawke when she left. Merrill slowly, and as silently as possible, eased herself from her hiding place.

"I've tried to hold back. You've seen what I am. But I am only a man." Why did Anders sound so funny, like he had something caught in his throat? Why was it suddenly so quiet except for panting and the sound of wet meat hitting the cutting board? Merrill craned her neck, just slightly to see into the clinic, and what she saw turned her blood to ice.

Anders was kissing Hawke. Not like the gentle kiss Hawke had given Merrill, nothing so innocent. His mouth was on hers, like a greedy fish. Merrill froze and then quickly ducked back into her hiding place, her head swimming, her bodily seeming to be on fire and freezing at the same time.

_Creators_. She wished the earth would swallow her, devour her never to be heard of again. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen. Tears sprang into her eyes. Why was she so stupid? How could she ever been so stupid to think that someone as beautiful and smart as Hawke could ever for a moment possibly feel anything for poor, babbling Merrill. She was about as exciting as a dry, stale biscuit. She had been a fool for following Hawke, even more a fool to think she ever stood a chance vying for her affection.

A solid thump and a grunt drew the elf from her thoughts. Hawke's voice was angry, icy. Almost as angry as she had been that night Merrill's hovel. Thoroughly confused, she waited, too frightened to venture from her hiding place. "What in the Maker's unholy ass crack do you think _you are doing_?" Hawke did not sound happy about the kiss. Merrill couldn't leave until she understood; she had to know whether or not Hawke loved Anders, if she stood any chance at all with the rogue.

* * *

><p>"What in the Maker's unholy ass crack do you think <em>you are doing<em>?" Hawke spat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, incredulously. She knew that Anders harbored feelings for her; he was about as subtle as a Qunari warrior. But the fact that he had acted on them by grabbing her and shoving his tongue in her mouth. Fury boiled in her gut, and her fists clenched involuntarily. Had he used the ruse of his manifesto to lure her here just for _this? _The thought only angered Hawke more, that he knew her, knew she supported him, and used that knowledge to manipulate her.

"You cannot expect me to resist forever." Anders sounded plaintive, hurt as if he had genuinely expected her to reciprocate his feelings.

"Resist what? You are like a brother to me!"

Anders scoffed, rolling his eyes, suddenly defensive. "Is it Isabela? I thought you wanted more than a quick tumble?"

"I…" Hawke paused and inhaled deeply, and when she spoke again, her voice was much steadier, much quieter. Anders was her friend. As angry as she was at this moment, she had no desire for this… unfortunate occurrence to irreparably damage their friendship. He deserved the truth. "This has nothing to do with anyone else, Anders. I am sorry, but the feelings I have for you go no further than friendship."

"It is Merrill?" Anders shook his head, the familiar bitterness returning to his tone. "I see how she looks at you. I know how you look at her. Blood mage," he spat. "She will always choose her demon over you, you know."

Hawke growled a horrible, predatory sound. He did not know when to quit; how could he be so stubborn, so in denial. Why couldn't he simply accept that she had no feelings for _him_. "And you have already chosen your demon over anyone, Anders."

"Justice is a spirit! Merrill is a stupid girl meddling in powers she cannot understand. Her folly could destroy you."

It was Hawke's turn to scoff. "She is not a stupid girl. For as much disgust as you have for her, take a look in the mirror, Anders. Your cause is the Mages, hers is her people. My hope for both of you is that neither of you are consumed by your ambitions."

"You're as much of a fool as she is." Anders narrowed his eyes at her, and she was not surprised to see them begin to burn blue.

"Because I love her and not you?" Hawke shook her head, disbelieving how far in denial her friend was. Or had Justice already consumed him to the point of no return, had he ceased to be Anders any longer? "I'm sorry, Anders."

When he did not respond, she clenched her jaw and whirled on the heel of her boot. He would not see reason, at least not tonight. He needed time to nurse his wounded ego and mend the hurt caused by his unrequited feelings. He would recover or he wouldn't; there was nothing left for her to do or say. So she left, stalking away without casting so much as a glimpse back at him.

_Ma vhenan!_ Hawke had said it, hadn't she? Merrill watched the rogue's retreating back as she stalked angrily away from the clinic. Not like the other night, where it could have easily meant that Hawke loved her as a friend or sister, but loved her in a way that implied it would be okay for Merrill to kiss her. Loved her, unequivocally. As crushed as she had been moments ago, she felt as happy and free, as if she might float away or fly all the way to Hightown.

Hawke turned out of sight, and Merrill started out of her musings. If she lost Hawke now, she would be forced to return to Anders, and after what had just transpired, she thought it might be safer to spend the night in Darktown alone.

She ran, heedless of the pain in her feet, until she rounded the corner and caught up with the rogue, slowing down to a jog and then matching her pace.

Hawke glanced sidelong at her, an arched brow the only indication of surprise she gave. "What are you doing in Darktown, at night, alone?"

"I got lost." Merrill replied simply, beaming despite Hawke's sternness. Nothing could foul her mood, not now.

"Lost? If you need to venture out at night you should bring me or Isabela or Varric with you." Hawke strode purposefully through Darktown without any hesitation. Hawke never got lost. She hadn't changed since the burial, still dressed like Hightown noble. Merrill hadn't seen her up close then, and now noticed, with a blush, that it suited her. The rogue, well she wasn't a rogue right now, was she? The noble was handsome, confident. No wonder no one bothered her, she exuded an aura of invincibility, of strength that Merrill was certain that she was not the only one to see.

"I know, Hawke. I'm sorry." Merrill quickened her pace to keep up with the taller human's long strides. "I—" She was about to tell Hawke that she had actually been searching for her in the first place, but pain lanced through her foot, causing her leg to buckle and she cried out instead.

With reflexes that would shame a cat, Hawke caught Merrill and lowered her to the ground. "What is it?"

"I need shoes with soles is all," Merrill said sheepishly, her breath quickening at the scant space between them as Hawke leaned over her and examined the injured foot. "But I've been saying that since the Deep Roads, haven't I?"

"Indeed you have." Hawke offered her a faint smile. "You stepped on a bit of glass, here." Easily, she lifted Merrill in her arms, cradling her like a child. Caught off guard by the abruptness of the movement, Merrill threw her arms around Hawke's neck and blushed furiously.

"Do you often carry silly, shoeless girls home?" Merrill asked quickly, mostly to distract herself from the warmth of the woman carrying her, the proximity their faces.

"No. Only lost, shoeless elf girls." Hawke said seriously.

Merrill frowned and studied Hawke's face for any trace of a smile. "Oh? Do you come across many of them? It wouldn't surprise me. Most elves prefer not to wear shoes. We like to feel close to the earth and shoes just get in the way. But I wouldn't think so many of us would get lost. Usually elves have a keen sense of direction, present company excluded of course."

Then, Hawke did smile. "It was a joke, Merrill."

"Oh, of course it was." This wasn't the way she envisioned the conversation going. Merrill inwardly sighed, tried to remember what Isabela had told her. Tell each other how you feel. That was very simple wasn't it? "I feel… like you're too good for me."

The rogue faltered in her steps but recovered gracefully. "What?"

"You're beautiful and clever and I'm… well, me. I say incredibly stupid things, and I know what I am doing with the Eluvian is dangerous. But all you do is protect me and take care of me, try to save me from myself." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I feel like all I ever do is mess up, but you're always there, always ready to pick me up, literally in this case."

Hawke stopped and turned her head to look at her. They had crossed into Hightown at some point, but Merill had not been paying attention. Only now the moon was out, casting the rogue's impassive face in a pale shadow. "Of course, I will even make sure you get a pair of shoes, with soles. But—" Her brief smile faded. "I will always take care of you."

"Because you love me?" The words were out before Merrill had a chance to stop them. But Hawke did not seem angry, instead she nodded, and the elf felt as if she might float away again. Only she didn't want to float away, not now, not while Hawke held her. "I love you! But I'm afraid. Afraid you'll see me as everyone else does, afraid I'll become the monster that Fenris thinks I am. If I become that—I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you because of—"

The last word died on her lips as Hawke silenced her by capturing her lips with her own. Merrill momentarily froze until she realized what was happening, and then she hugged Hawke closer to her, returned her kiss, thinking that it was nicest way anyone had ever told her to shut up. Need awakened in her, a desire that seemed to seize her whole body in a way that she had to be closer to the older woman, had to touch her, feel her. She cupped Hawke's cheek with her hand, and kissed her. As if the kiss might end at any moment, as if her heart might stop and this was the last thing Merrill would ever do, she kissed Hawke.

Reluctantly, she let the rogue break the kiss and searched her eyes, searching for regret or disappointment, any sign that this had been a mistake. But there was none. Hawke smiled, truly smiled. A broad, genuine smile that lit up her whole face, shattered the usual mask of stoicism. The smile danced in her eyes. "It's alright, Merrill." Hawke whispered and leaned in and they kissed again.

This time, neither broke away for a very long time. Joy held both women, as soft as an embrace and as intense as grief. A song that they sang in unison, without sound, with their lips and mouths and… _Elgar'nan!_ Merill thought, faltering as Hawke's tongue swiped her lower lip, before dipping further. _Her tongue is in my mouth! Isabela's dirty books never mentioned…_ She recovered quickly when she realized how nice it was, how good it felt to have Hawke kiss her that way, and she parted her lips slightly, allowing her greater access.

An unfamiliar sensation began to pool in her belly, a pleasurable itch in between her legs that caused her to whimper as Hawke pulled away for the second time.

"Is this…" Merrill trailed off, marveling at her own voice, so low and husky, so unlike her normal voice. "Is this the part where we get naked?"

Hawke laughed, a chiming, melodious sound. It was nice to see her not so serious for once. "We might want to get home before that part, my girl."

_Her girl._ Yes, Merrill thought as she rested her head on Hawke's shoulder, nuzzling her face into her neck as the rogue carried her through the streets of Hightown. Her girl, Hawke had called her. Yes, she most certainly was.

* * *

><p><strong>This ain't the end, y'all. Plenty more angst and drama to continue, but it was about time for our girls to have a happy moment, don't you think?<strong>

**Again, thank all of you for the awesome support and reviews you've given me. And please continue to leave reviews because they make me happy. Next chapter? More shit getting real. Fuck that Arishok duel, man. That is the worst fight of the game when you're a rogue. . And it shall be no different for our rogue.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A wee shorter chapter than usual, but oh well. I am out of town and needed the distraction of writing something not for work. So here it is. Apologies for any short-comings. **

**Thanks for all the reviews. Please continue to leave them. I really need a boost right now.**

* * *

><p>Nakedness did not ensue immediately.<p>

"Serrah Hawke! Thank goodness you've returned!" Bodahn boomed the moment Hawke carried Merrill through the door. The dwarf rushed to close it behind them, wringing his hands fretfully. "Sandal told me you'd gone out but he didn't say where. It's late and you know how dangerous the streets are at night and you without your armor! Is Miss Merrill alright?" His brow creased with concern.

Merrill liked Bodahn. He babbled like she did, but he was always friendly, always very helpful when she stopped by to visit the garden.

"We are fine, Bodahn, thank you. Could you bring some hot water up to my room, some clean rags and bandages? Thank you." Hawke didn't pause on her way to the stairway, on the way to her room. "Your foot still needs looking after."

Merrill knew better than to argue or protest and allowed Hawke to set her on the edge of the enormous bed. Retrieving a chair from the corner of the room, Hawke dragged it over and sat, gently lifting the elf's injured foot to rest in her lap. The rogue appeared so solemn, so studious as she examined the cuts that Merrill smiled. Unable to resist the temptation, she leaned forward and ruffled the rogue's hair, the way Isabela tousled hers.

Partly surprised and bewildered, Hawke glanced up sharply and Merrill was helpless but to smile into her frown. "You looked so serious. I wanted you to smile again. Besides, I have wanted to do that for a very long time, but I didn't dare. But now that you said that you loved me, I figured I might be able to get away with it."

At that, Hawke did smile again, a feral smile. "What else do you think you can get away with?" There was something low and suggestive that colored her words that caused a shiver to race up and down Merrill's spine.

"Serrah Hawke, should I fetch the healer?" Bodahn bustled in, balancing a basin and an armful of linens expertly in his arms.

Taking the basin from him, Hawke hastily shook her head. "No, thank you, Bodahn. I think I can handle this on my own. Good night."

Bodahn surreptitiously glimpsed at Merrill then back at Hawke. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but evidently thought better of it and bowed his head. "Good night, serrah. I shall lock up for the evening."

"Thank you, Bodahn. Have a good night." The dwarf closed the bedroom door behind him, and Hawke dipped a rag into the basin and tenderly began washing Merrill's foot. Her touch was so innocent and soothing but it was as if Merrill had never truly been touched before in her life. Her heart no longer beat but sang within her chest; her whole body hummed along with it to the tune of an intoxicating energy.

"How much of what happened at Anders clinic did you hear?"

"Oh!" Merrill ducked her head, abashed. "All of it, but it was not my intention to spy."

"No," Hawke discarded the rag and dipped a fresh one in the basin. "I believe you to be completely incapable of deception. It is not in your nature." After she finished cleaning the wound, she expertly wrapped the foot with a bandage. She might not have the magic of healing arts, but she had proven herself a passable healer when the situation called for it. "I am sorry for Anders' behavior." She paused before tying off the bandage, and Merrill caught the barest flicker of sadness on her features. "Truly, I am sorry. How is that?"

Merrill flexed her bandaged foot. "Much better. Ma serannas, lethallan." She smiled at the rogue and stood, placing weight on the foot cautiously at first. "Pity I never learned any of the healing arts. But for no magical ability, you're quite good at it."

"For someone who lives on the edge of a blade, it only makes sense to be somewhat versed in repairing the damage wrought by the blade." Shrugging, the rogue dismissed the matter as she moved the basin and chair into the corner, out of the way. "Or in this case, the damage wrought by a broken bit of glass."

When she returned, she faced Merrill in the middle of the room, the elf testing out her bandaged foot. It was a little tender, but nothing that would hamper her movements. When she glanced up, she found herself face to face with the rogue again, and her heart fluttered as the she reached for her. Her eyes shut as they kissed again, slow, languid kisses at first. Merrill was certain as long as she lived, as long as Hawke would have her, she would never tire of kissing her, even if they spent the whole of every day doing it.

"I love you," The words were whispered, breath and lips brushing Merrill's ear. The words that she had yearned to hear for so long stole her breath. The grazing of Hawke's lips over the rim of her ear returned it one long, ragged sigh. She clung to Hawke, pressing their bodies together without realizing precisely what she was doing. It was as if she were under a spell, her body responding in ways that her brain had not had time to process.

"I am afraid," She admitted, burying her face in Hawke's shoulder, her whole body buzzing with sensation. Hawke's fingers on the back of her neck. Her smell, clean, of spice and smooth female flesh. The strength of hardened muscle underneath the arms she wrapped around Hawke's waist. The steady, slightly quickened exhalation of breath. The feeling was altogether new; touch had never elicited such sensations, produced such reeling emotion, such uncontrolled need. And the elf wasn't entirely sure what she needed, only that her whole body felt alive with craving, with longing. It was a little like being drunk, her mind giddy and swimming. "Even if you think less of me for it."

"We don't have to." With a hand cupping Merrill's cheek, she tilted her face up to her, kissed her forehead, each cheek, and finally her lips. "It's alright. I can wait."

"Well, I can't!" Merrill blurted, vehemently shaking her head, and then blushed as she registered the exclamation. She buried her face in Hawke's chest again, further embarrassed by the soft laugh that escaped the rogue. _Elgar'nan,_ but she was bad at this, it was a wonder that Hawke loved her.

The realization blossomed anew, and with it a certainty and confidence the elf was unaccustomed to. Hawke loved her, had said so, had shown her so, though Merrill had been too stubborn to see it. Hawke loved her and had protected her in the face of the elf's anger and derision. She had said so many awful things to Hawke when she had denied her the arulin'holm, so many awful things that must have hurt the rogue deeply. But she was still here, strong arms encircling her, holding her, loving her. She looked up, seeking out those fiery blue eyes that she adored.

"No, lethallan." She leaned forward on her tip toes and kissed the corner of Hawke's mouth gently. "I do not wish to wait." Taking one of Hawke's hands in in her own, she pressed her lips to the knuckles. "I want to give myself to you." She faltered, her mouth suddenly dry at the prospect, of what she was offering. "All of me." Hawke shuddered in her arms at her words, and Merrill was simultaneously astonished and pleased that she had managed to cause such a response.

Despite what everyone thought, she was not completely innocent. It was hard to remain innocent living amongst the Dalish. Aravels did not lend much to privacy. Oftentimes, modesty was simply not practical. Just because she was shy and awkward did not mean she was completely ignorant.

Not breaking eye contact, she gently tugged Hawke towards the bed and lay down, pulling her lover on top of her.

"Oh, Merrill…" Hawke breathed holding herself above the elf, gazing down at her, adoration openly adorning her features.

Once again, time became illusive.

The power that rushed through her, that pulsed through her veins like molten metal and roared in her ears with the force of a mountain gale, was as intense as anything magical. There was no thought, only rhythm. Only the tempo of two bodies moving as one, moving with the languid enjoyment of exploration, experimentation. Hawke tested her with kisses and caresses, pushing her to the limit of torturous pleasure. Colors flashed behind her eyes, red and purple and one unseen.

Merrill absorbed everything Hawke gave her and offered it back, trying to relay every word and thought that had passed through her mind since they had met with touch and gesture. But somewhere, she lost track of where she began and Hawke ended, and they simply became one.

They collapsed in a synchronized tangle. Merrill laid her head on Hawke's chest, listening to her heartbeat swift and forceful, gradually slowing. She felt boneless, as if her entire body had gone completely to jelly. And a bit sore, but not unpleasantly so.

Hawke held her, a small smile tugging on her lips as she gazed down and dragged her fingers up and down her arms, her smile broadening at the chill bumps that rose on the elf's skin as a result of her touch. They rested in silence for what seemed to be a long time.

It was Hawke who spoke next. "I hate these." She frowned as her finger tips gently traced the scars usually covered by fingerless gloves that covered the length of her forearm. Some were delicate and white with age, others more recent and pink and angry.

"What happens now? I mean," Merrill ignored the statement, knowing that any other response would likely lead to an argument, and the moment was too perfect to spoil. "What did this mean?"

"Well," Hawke raked her fingers through Merrill's hair and kissed the top of her head. "I was thinking of scandalizing the neighbors by inviting my Dalish lover to move in with me."

Merrill sat up quickly and examined her lover's face, scrutinizing her expression to determine whether or not she was being teased. "Here? In Hightown? The rich, fancy part of town with no rats in it?"

"I could make sure you were safe here." Hawke leaned forward, disappointed by the sudden lack of contact and gathered Merrill back into her arms. "I want you with me. I don't like the idea of you alone in that hovel. It leaks."

"And you, with an elf?" She knew Hawke did not care that she was an elf, knew that the rogue also didn't care what others thought of her with an elf, but would her clan call her a flat-ear now, say that she had gone quick by taking a human lover? Such unions were forbidden among her people; they were proud and any pairing outside of her own kind was a sort of betrayal. At least, that was how they would view it.

"I've wanted you here with me for a long time," Hawke admitted softly, nuzzling into Merrill's ear. The rogue had quickly discovered that the elf's ears were particularly sensitive and had exploited the knowledge to her full advantage that night. "In a warm house with no leaks, plenty of food. Safe from muggers and Templars."

She met Hawke's eyes and wondered how she had never seen the love there, so obvious and clear. It had always been there. For as much as Hawke hid her feelings, kept her face void of expression, the truth was always in her eyes, Merrill realized. "If you're not afraid," She pulled the rogue's arms tighter around her. "Then neither am I."

* * *

><p>Isabela arched her back, feeling herself clench with a wave of release that she ground out for as long as possible. Fisting her hand in the hair at the back of the head in between her legs, she held it there until her whole body tensed and spasmed and she cried out the wrong name.<p>

She collapsed back onto the heap of pillows and blankets, one arm thrown over her eyes as her breathing slowed and her heartbeat returned to normal. Thank the Maker that whores didn't care what name you called out so long as you paid them. Hopefully, the girl had been too preoccupied to notice.

Still, Tara was a regular of Isabela's, for reasons that she would vehemently deny, even to herself, but anyone with at least one eye could see. There was a similarity between the whore and—no, Isabela had been coming to the Blooming Rose for ages, before she had even met any of the ragtag bunch of companions. The similarity was coincidence, nothing more. The girl had a gifted tongue and talents with her hands that bordered on artistic mastery, that was all.

Tara crawled up beside her, daintily wiping her face on a corner of blanket before stretching out like a satisfied cat, her head on Isabela's taut stomach. "It's been awhile. Thought you had forgotten about me."

"Of course not." Isabela toyed with Tara's dark hair absently. "I've just been busy. Following Hawke around wouldn't take so much of my time she didn't insist on helping every peasant that moans at her in the street." Yes, that was the reason for her shouting the wrong name during climax. Maker, she was so bloody wrapped up in questing with Hawke and the other companions that she even thought of them during sex. She was spending far too much time catering to Kirkwall's every need lately. Well, it was nothing a little more rum could not cure, surely.

"You love it." The pirate could feel Tara grin into her stomach with the cheeky comment.

The girl yelped at the well-deserved slap to her bare backside. "It pays good is all. Pays well enough to keep me in whores and booze, which you benefit from I might add." Isabela shot back irritably. She most certainly did not enjoy traipsing after every little pathetic quest in the whole of Kirkwall. There were too many people not willing to help themselves, why Hawke insisted on helping them was beyond her.

Some of it was fun of course. The fighting was always fun. Dodging and stabbing, parrying and thrusting, fighting side by side the other rogue while Big Girl did what she did best: whacking away with her sword and shield, drawing as much attention away from the other companions as possible. The crackle of energy as a spell ripped the air, a bolt of lightning cleaving an enemy in two. Laughter and victory afterwards. Especially if their enemy were slavers or bandits. All the women had a particular distaste for people who preyed on the helpless and weak.

Other times it was dreadfully boring. Hawke even had the gall to drag her into the Chantry once. Of all places.

Tara mock frowned at her, rubbing the red mark left Isabela's palm. "Hmph. And the pirate queen can't find any other way to finance her favorite whores?" Rolling onto her knees and swinging one leg over the pirate in one nimble motion that demonstrated one of the many reasons she was a favorite of Isabela's, Tara straddled her hips.

"I do find ways to supplement my income, as any self-respecting thief would. Oh, Andraste's tits, give me a minute." She batted away the girl's exploring, insistent hands.

"Don't tell me you're tired!" Tara acquiesced and settled for simply massaging the pirate's hips and thighs. "You paid for a whole night. I can bring another girl in if you're feeling a little more… adventurous. Or a boy if that's what you're in the mood for."

"Mmm… right there feels good." Isabela's eyes fluttered closed as she enjoyed Tara's expert ministrations, another reason she favored the girl. "I just need some time to recover; I do believe you fucked me cross-eyed that time. Speaking of thieving, the guard captain mentioned a certain incident to me."

"Oh?" For a whore, Tara could still manage to pull off a very convincing innocent act. "The guard captain? The big redheaded giant that's come in here with you and your other friends?"

"The one whose height could be measured in acres?" Isabela replied sarcastically. "You know exactly who I am talking about, you goose. Don't play coy with me; it might work with your Templar clients but I am onto you."

Pouting, Tara switched tactics and leaned forward on her elbows so that she was hovering just above the pirate, their bare skin just barely brushing. "It was only a sovereign or two. It was his own fault for leaving it out. I just relieved him of the money he was so careless with." She lowered her body on top of the pirate's, only to be flipped onto her back, arms pinned over her head.

"You know my rules," Isabela chastised the girl by nipping at the tender bit of flesh below her ear. "Seriously, Tara, Aveline doesn't like me that much. Actually, I'm not sure why she did me the favor at all, but she knew you were one of my girls. If a powerful client makes enough of a stink, she will jail you. I can't protect you from that."

The girl squirmed underneath her, not trying to escape so much as to tease. "I'll be more careful. Maker, you're not turning into one of those dull sots who want to talk all bloody night, are you?"

The barb stung more than it should have which was enough to knock the pirate off balance, and she spent longer than she should have gazing down at the face that was so similar but so different. Her chin was too delicate, the eyes a shade too dark, her hair was too long. Growling more in frustration than desire, she captured Tara's lips with her own, ravenously, greedily. The pirate queen was certainly not one of those boring, pathetic sots who had to hire a whore to talk about feelings.

Feelings were a weakness that she did not allow herself. "Bring in another girl," Isabela whispered hoarsely as she broke away. She considered a minute. "Jenna, if she is free."

Tara needed no extra coaxing; she rolled from under the pirate and wrapped a sheet about her as she ran to fetch her companion. Isabela reached for the bottle on the stand next to the bed. It was only half full, and she polished it off in a matter of moments and opened another one. Her head was buzzing and the room pleasantly unsteady. When the two whores returned, Isabela silenced the tinny voice in the back of her mind with a couple more long draughts.

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><p><strong>Today was a rough day. I needed a distraction, so if it sucks, I truly am sorry. Real life is a little... fail at the moment. <strong>

**Please review. And if anyone has a spare penguin or squirrel to bear some good feelings and joyous tidings my way, I would greatly appreciate it. **

**Lastly, I don't think I can ever say it enough, thank all of you for all of your support. Whether you review or favorite or just follow this story, it truly means a lot to me. Thank you.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the delay... another transitional chapter which is driving me nuts. I can never be objective with these chapters, so sorry if it blows. I don't know a single writer who doesn't hate at least a portion of what they write... it's part of our charm.**

**Thank you everyone for your feedback. I know I've been saying the duel is coming and I swear, if Qunari don't die in the next chapter, I will shank my own Jory.**

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><p>The docks were always busy regardless of the time of day or night. During the day, it was mostly laborers loading or discharging ships, carrying cargo. They were Ferelden mostly, paid by the day and not guaranteed work from week to week. It was all dependent on the ships, how many were in port at any given time. It was a good day for the Fereldens, there was a ship in every berth and several more anchored offshore waiting to dock.<p>

Sailors shouted at one another from the decks of their ships, playful challenges to the crew of neighboring ships. Dock masters hollered at the laborers to move quicker, cargo didn't unload itself. A pack of children chased one another through the crowds, pushing their way through. One bumped into another who bumped into a laborer, causing him to drop his crate. It smashed to the ground, but the child darted away before the laborer could snag him.

Merrill smiled as she watched the small child evade the angry laborer. Shemlen children weren't so different than elven children; they played the same games, got into the same trouble.

When she had awoken that morning, Hawke was already awake, seated on the edge of the bed, buckling her boots. She smiled at her lover's back and rolled onto her knees behind her. "Good morning, lethallan."

Hawke had turned in Merrill's arms and smiled into the elf's kiss. "Mmm. Good morning. I was going to let you sleep in a bit longer." Looping an arm around Merrill's waist, she had pulled her into her lap. "How am I supposed to get out of bed when you're still naked?"

"You could close your eyes, I suppose." Merrill had teased and squirmed until she was comfortable in her lover's lap.

"And deny myself the beautiful sight? I think not." Hawke's smile had faded. "I have to go see the viscount this morning, unfortunately. He undoubtedly has some mess that needs fixing." She had sighed, her features returning to their normal, unexpressive mask. "Would you like to come along?"

Merrill did. She almost always wanted to come along on Hawke's business. It was always so exciting. And she had brought Isabela along as well, which turned out to be unfortunate since the viscount's mess turned out requiring a trip to the Qunari compound at the docks. Isabela never accompanied Hawke into the compound, always with a quick excuse why she could not. Merrill did not blame her; the Qunari certainly were frightening. They were all so big, like great big oxen, they even resembled oxen with their horns and barrel chests.

So she had volunteered to wait outside the compound with Isabela while Hawke and Aveline made their inquiries with the Arishok. Evidently, the viscount's son had run off to join the Qunari, and the viscount wanted Hawke to bring him back. Which seemed silly when Merrill thought about it, why would anyone choose to become so grumpy?

"You and Hawke… how did it go last night?" Isabela asked casually, following Merrill's gaze at the compound's walls.

"She's so amazing and beautiful…" Merrill responded without thinking, her mind still firmly focused on the events of the previous night. It all still seemed so much like a dream, everything had been so perfect, more perfect than she could have imagined. "How could anyone not love her?"

"How could anyone not?" Isabela replied but there was something uncharacteristic in her tone, an underlying bitterness that the elf nearly missed.

Merrill quickly looked away from the compound to the pirate. "It's me. I said something wrong, didn't I?"

"No, of course not." Isabela smiled, her voice normal again. Merrill felt physically lighter with relief. For some reason, she could not bear the thought of saying something that upset the pirate. It would be like hurting Hawke. The mere idea of it made her feel terrible. "You could never say anything wrong. I'm happy for you, Kitten." The pirate reached out and tucked an errant lock of hair behind Merrill's ear, her hand returning to cup the elf's cheek. "You've been alone long enough."

Merrill grinned and felt her chest flutter. Without warning, she launched herself at the pirate and threw her arms around her neck. "Oh! Thank you, Isabela. I never thought—you were right of course. I did what you said and we talked, without arguing, and thank you!" The pirate was obviously caught off guard by the gesture and she initially stiffened in Merrill's embrace, but gradually relaxed and returned the hug.

"So… did you get naked as well?" Isabela smirked and set the elf back to her feet.

"Isabela!" Merrill gasped her friend's name, felt her cheeks and ears burn and ducked her head as if she could hide her reaction. She swore Isabela said things sometimes just to see her blush.

"Oooh, look at that blush. That good, huh?"

"What was that good?" Hawke and Aveline appeared around the corner from the gates of the compound, both wearing tight expressions. Evidently the meeting with the Arishok had not gone well, not that Merrill had expected it to be fun, exactly. The Qunari were dreadfully serious, more so than Hawke, but whatever the Arishok had said was enough to make both the guard captain and the rogue appear tense, nervous. Anything that could worry both Hawke and Aveline had to be quite serious.

"Merrill and I were just discussing the finer points of your… prowess." Isabela piped, arching both her eyebrows suggestively, either oblivious or indifferent to the abrupt shift in mood.

"Oh, Maker…" Aveline grumbled, rolling her eyes.

"Now isn't the time, Isabela," Hawke said reproachfully, although her eyes bore the slightest trace of amusement. "We have to find Seamus. Quickly. I fear violence will be unavoidable. Are you two ready?" Her gaze flickered from the pirate, to Merrill, who quickly nodded.

"Asking me if I'm ready for a fight is like asking me if I'm ready for a fuck." Isabela made a point to roll her eyes in imitation of Aveline which made Merrill giggle. Though Isabela and the guard captain argued nearly as much as she and Fenris did, their arguments bordered on good-natured rather than open hostility. Deep down, despite how much Isabela riled and teased her, Merrill was certain the guard captain actually liked her.

"Oh, for Andraste's sake! Hawke?" Aveline sighed impatiently, as if she were burdened with a brood of small children who refused to follow instructions.

The rogue's gaze was lingering on Merrill, offering her a surreptitious smile that made the elf's knees feel all wobbly. How could she do that? Reduce Merrill to a puddle of adoration with just a glimpse, a smile? Maybe love was a magic, a very powerful type of magic that anyone could use.

"Aveline's right. Let's go." Hawke said finally, turning to lead the way. "Kirkwall doesn't save itself."

Isabela huffed under her breath and fell into step beside Merrill. "Did you borrow Aveline's stick today, Hawke?" She called to the rogue's back. "The one our dear guard captain usually has stuck up her own ass?"

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><p>She had been right. There had been fighting.<p>

Seamus was already dead when they had reached the Chantry.

It bothered her that nothing in the Free Marches seemed to be able to be handled simply. Everything almost always ended in bloodshed. Disputes could never be handled with words, no matter how diplomatic Hawke tried to be. No one seemed willing to listen to reason, to avail themselves to other points of view or peaceful solutions.

Three days had passed since she had left Viscount Dumar, weeping over the body of his son. Hawke had found her own words of comfort hollow. The sight of a man grieving his only child was a wound too similar to her own. His sobs ripped open the scabs of her own grief, still raw. She had left the man broken to his own misery and went home to wash the blood and foul stench of violent death and loosed bowels from her body.

Hawke reached for her tankard and sipped absently, trying to feign interest in the story Varric was relating to the rest of the companions. Gathering at the Hanged Man had been her idea; it had been ages since the all gathered together. She had hoped it would be a distraction.

She should be comforted by the fact that Mother Petrice was dead, but she was not.

She had been bitch the first time Hawke had met her. She had played the part of a well-intentioned Chantry sister masterfully, all while using Hawke and her friends to try and force a confrontation between the Chantry and Qunari. When that had failed, Hawke should have known that seized by fanatic conviction, Petrice would not give up.

Then she had been promoted and evidently an increase in crazy had accompanied the increase in rank. So far, the Qunari had harmed no one; they seemed content to languish in their little corner of the docks. While Hawke did not personally agree with their philosophy, as long as the Qunari minded their own business, who cared if they attracted a few converts?

Evidently, Mother Petrice had cared quite a lot. Steeping in her own religious fanaticism had led the woman to lose touch with reality. She had perverted the teachings of the Chantry to justify her own violent prejudice against the Qunari, believing that duty bound her to protect the Chantry from the Qunari "threat" by any means necessary.

And then, she had killed an innocent boy as a means to further her cause in driving the Qunari for Kirkwall.

But that wasn't what bothered Hawke, not really anyway. It was those that Petrice had incited to follow her, to attack Hawke and her friends in the Chantry. It was their blood that the rogue had scrubbed off of her skin.

They were fools.

They were peasants and commoners. Simple people that Petrice had seduced to her cause with hollow promises of salvation and religious favor, frightened with stories of Qunari barbarism, manipulated into bigoted devotion. They were not trained fighters. The most experience they probably had with a blade was for cutting bread. Petrice had set them against Hawke and her companions knowing they would not, could not win. More sacrificial lambs for her slaughter, more victims felled at the hands of "Qunari sympathizers." More martyrs for her cause.

It would have been equally effective for these zealots to light themselves on fire in emulation of their great prophet instead of throwing themselves on Hawke's blades. It had been over in moments; even the lone Templar had been no match against the combined efforts of her companions.

Underneath the table, she felt Merrill's hand seek out hers, felt slender fingers intertwine with her own. Hawke glimpsed at her lover, whose face was faintly flushed by the tankards of ale Isabela kept placing in front of her. The flickering light of the nearby hearth cast dancing shadows on the elf's face, highlighting her high cheekbones. She was laughing at something Isabela had said, a joke at Aveline's expense.

She had been paler than usual after that fight, the lines of the vallaslin tattoos had stood out more starkly against her face. Normally as staunch a fighter as any member of Hawke's group, the encounter against ill-equipped, ignorant commoners had visibly shaken the elf. It had not been the usual slavers or bandits or evil Templars they had killed.

Guilt clotted in her chest at the memory of her lover so upset, and she regretted that she had been the one to place her in that position. It was a pity that Petrice could die only once. Without thinking, Hawke leaned over and pressed her lips to Merrill's temple in wordless apology.

The elf started and then blushed, surprised by the sudden gesture. So far, their relationship, while not exactly secret, had not been publically declared. Hawke normally shied away from public displays of affection.

Hawke realized that the comfortable chatter at the table had suddenly ceased. Anders had turned violently crimson, but showed no signs of turning that dreaded Justice blue despite obviously seething, his eyes locked on Merrill with nothing short of pure venom. Fenris was brooding and regarding her with puzzled contemplation, not so different from his normal expression. Aveline's face was tight with concern and reproach, again not so different from her normal expression. Varric grinned brightly, his tankard frozen halfway to his mouth, no doubt contemplating how he could spin the story of the rogue and her Dalish lover. Isabela had already pushed away from the table and stood at the bar, ordering more drinks.

It was the reaction she had been carefully avoiding for days, but sod it all, everyone had to find out eventually. "Consider it my own personal Exalted March on the Dales." Hawke said icily to the rest of her companions.

Thankfully, Varric laughed, so hard that his tankard tipped and splashed as he pounded his fist on the table. Fenris tipped his head and smiled faintly. "You have done well in your conquest," He gave a half nod.

"For the Maker's sake, Hawke." Aveline shook her head, struggling valiantly to maintain a disapproving guise but failing to subdue the smile that tugged on the corners of her lips.

Only Anders seemed unmoved by the joke.

Well, and Merrill, whose eyes searched Hawke's face as she attempted to puzzle out the joke. "Do not worry about it, love." Hawke smiled and stood, planting a kiss on top of Merrill's head. "Another round, on me." Relieved that the tension had been broken, she left the table for the bar, lightened by the sound of banter returning to the table.

Sliding up next to Isabela, she signaled to Corff, who waved her off in favor of another customer. "With as much coin as I put into this place…" She muttered under her breath.

Isabela laughed into her mug. "Corff knows you'll continue to pour money into this dump, regardless of how he treats you. He knows you have no taste for the finer establishments in Hightown."

The pirate was refusing to look at her, Hawke noticed. She hadn't been pleased with the way the fight progressed in the Chantry either. If anyone wanted Petrice dead more than Hawke, it was probably Isabela who had a streak of aggression that ran towards feral for people who took advantage of the weak and vulnerable.

"Oi! Corff!" Isabela slammed her empty tankard down on the bar. "What does a beautiful woman have to do to get a refill in this tavern?"

The bartender sauntered over casually, rolling his eyes. "Show me one, and I'll tell you."

Isabela held a hand to her chest dramatically. "You wound me, serrah. A refill, if you please, and whatever our dear Hawke is having."

"Another round for our table." Hawke slid the silvers onto the bar and turned her back to lean against it.

Isabela had fallen silent again, nursing her refilled tankard and staring straight ahead at nothing. Intuitively, she knew what bothered her without any words being said, the root of the unease that the pirate surely refused to acknowledge to herself. Hesitantly, Hawke reached out and touched her, just above the red cloth she wore tied around her upper arm. "Isabela…"

The pirate jerked her arm away, her eyes narrowing at the rogue as if she had just been struck. "Don't." The brief flash of vulnerability was immediately replaced by something harder, more lethal. "Don't you dare, Hawke."

Hawke closed her eyes and inhaled, listening to Isabela's footsteps as she rapidly returned to their table. When she exhaled, it was with deliberate control. She might not show her feelings, but she at least acknowledged them. The pirate simply refused to admit she had any feelings at all. Sighing once more, she returned to the table where Isabela had rejoined the other companions, laughing as if nothing had just happened.

"I ordered us another round," Hawke announced deliberately loud as she sat back down next to Merrill. "But you know Norah, she takes her time."

The Hanged Man's sole waitress that evening cast a glower in her direction. "Blow it out your arse, Hawke."

"Be nice, Hawke." Varric smirked and spread his arms out theatrically. "The gentility of the staff is one of the reasons I live here."

"I thought you lived here because the Merchant's Guild won't have you in any of the others." The guard captain replied dryly. "And no, I still won't help you steal the Hanged Man." She cut the dwarf off before he could even ask.

"How could anyone steal a building?" Merrill wondered aloud glancing from Varric to Aveline. "You would have to have the captain of the guard help you to steal a whole building, I suppose." The dreamy way she said it implied that she was actually imagining how one might attempt to steal a building, and Hawke was helpless but to laugh.

"Don't worry your pretty head about it, Daisy." Varric snorted.

"That's right, Kitten. Big Girl here would never sacrifice the integrity of her position for something so petty as building theft." Isabela smirked at the guard captain. "In fact, I'm surprised she's here with us miscreants at all instead of letting Donnic oil her creaky hinge."

"Shut up, whore." Aveline replied, almost amiably, without missing a beat, well accustomed to the pirate's goading, especially in matters concerning her husband.

"Prig." Isabela said, unphased.

"You two are worse than children." Anders grumbled under his breath.

Hawke settled back into her chair, the warmth of the elf's body as she leaned sleepily against her. It was comforting. Listening to Aveline and Isabela bicker, to Varric laughing, watching Fenris brood and occasionaly nod his head, even Anders sulking… the gentle pressure of Merrill against her. Even the buzz of the rest of the tavern's patrons and Norah slamming down full tankards a little too forcefully on the table. These were the moments she missed most. It would feel better if Bethany were with them again, but as it was, Hawke could almost forget how broken the viscount had seemed, how worried she was for the future of Kirkwall.

"If you stay out late with us every night, Man Hands, Donnic might get bored and find other creaks that need oiling." Isabela reached for the fresh mug that Norah set down in front of her.

Aveline shrugged, still unperturbed by the pirate's needling. "Just because the concepts of commitment and love are as lost on you as subtlety does not mean everyone has forgotten them. I believe Donnic to be as incapable of infidelity as you are of basic human decency."

Something shifted, barely perceptible underneath the surface. After years of relishing her ability to get underneath the guard captain's skin, the tables had been turned on Isabela and she stood, too quickly. Hawke sensed the danger of the moment, just like the instant before a fight, the flicker of time before violence erupted. Even Merrill stirred against her side. "Well, if some of us weren't useless, thieving whores, then you would be out of the job, Guard Captain." Isabela spat disdainfully. "Now, if you will excuse me, I think I might find more suitable company at the Blooming Rose."

Hawke blinked into the silence that followed Isabela all the way out of the tavern. Aveline gaped, open-mouthed and perplexed. Fenris might as well have said something nice about mages or Anders something kindly about the Circle.

"Well, that was a switch." Varric shrugged indifferently. "I think you and Isabela are rubbing off on each other, Aveline."

"Bite your tongue, dwarf."

"Isabela!" Merrill had climbed to her feet, prepared to follow her friend but Hawke caught her with an arm around the waist and shook her head.

"I think it might be best to let her be right now, Daisy." Varric explained. "She just needs to blow off some steam, most likely. And I'd say you're a mite too tender for what she has in mind."

Anders made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. "And on that rather disgusting note, I'd better head back to Darktown where I will feel cleaner."

Despite their adversarial relationship, deep down, Aveline did care for Isabela. If she did not, avoiding the pirate altogether would be easy, as would jailing her for any of her many misadventures. Concern etched the tall woman's face as she bid an empty farewell to Anders. Hawke caught her eye. "It's alright, Aveline. You said no worse than she has said to you on a number of occasions. Tomorrow she'll act as though nothing happened."

The guard captain opened her mouth and then shut it again, her lips pressed in a tight line. "Of course."

Hawke returned her attention to Merrill, who was still fretfully watching the door even though Isabela had disappeared long minutes ago. "We had better call it a night as well." She was pleasantly surprised at how right the word "we" felt to say. It was such a simple, ridiculous thing, but it marked her and Merrill as a couple and made her feel happy, warm.

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><p>"Do you think Isabela is alright?" Merrill asked many hours later.<p>

Hawke retreated from the edge of sleep and slowly nodded. They were tangled in the soft covers of the bed, naked and pressed against one another: Hawke's front to Merrill's back, skin to skin. "I'm sure she's fine, love." As she returned to wakefulness, she began kissing the elf's exposed shoulders gently, smiling at the chill bumps that rose on her skin.

Shivering, Merrill turned in Hawke's arms and kissed her. "I just worry about her. I have you and Aveline has Donnic. Varric has Bianca. Anders has his patients and the mages, of course. Fenris is alone but he seems to like it better that way." The way her brow furrowed in concern as she gazed up at her caused Hawke's throat to tighten with adoration. "Who does Isabela have? You don't suppose she gets lonely, do you?"

But Hawke wasn't thinking about Isabela, not at the moment. Instead she pressed her lips against Merrill's, suddenly awash with powerful emotion and the need to channel it. This was one of the reasons she loved Merrill, her unwavering compassion for others, even people like Fenris who were so hateful towards her. Merrill cared about people, not because it benefited her in any way, but simply because it was who she was. It caused a great wave of affection and love and pride to well up within Hawke accompanied by a surge of gratitude that those feelings were mutual.

Merrill accepted the kiss, gasped as the rogue nipped her lower lip with her teeth. Eventually, she pulled away and gazed at Hawke questioningly. "Hawke?"

"I love you, Merrill." Hawke breathed, entranced by the adoration so clear in Merrill's wide, green eyes.

Merrill giggled and blushed, touching their noses. "I love you too, Hawke. Very much."

Hawke threw the covers off of them abruptly, and Merrill yelped at the sudden gust of cold air. Bodahn had delivered a box to her room the previous afternoon, but Hawke had set it on her desk unopened, waiting for the right time.

"You need shoes with soles." Hawke explained as she returned to the bed with the box and set it on the bed in front of the confused elf.

It had not been easy to find what she had been looking for, especially sized to an elf of Merrill's stature. It had to be light and flexible, allowing the mage full range of motion and adequate protection without weighing her down. Hawke had managed to find a set of garish white armor, but she couldn't think of anything that would suit Merrill less than that monstrosity. Merrill was a child of the earth, of the Dalish, of the old gods.

Merrill delicately untied the string that tied the package closed and opened the box. "Oh, Hawke…" She whispered, for once speechless.

Kneeling on the bed behind her lover, Hawke wrapped her arms around Merrill's waist and kissed her cheek. "I promised you shoes with soles… but then I had to find an outfit that matched." The elf held up the armor to examine. It was the same dark greens and browns that she favored, but more adequately armored with bracers and pauldrons and greaves. The chainmail was of a better quality, lighter but just as durable. And as promised, boots complete with soles. It was similar to the white armor Hawke had found, in form and function, but more suited to the elf's tastes.

"Hawke, it's beautiful! _Ma serannas, lethallan_." Merrill turned her head and beamed up at her, love nakedly showing on her face, in her eyes and with it, trust.

"I love you." Hawke squeezed her fiercely, needing to feel her lover close as though by holding her she could shut out Kirkwall and all its insanity, as though she could shield Merrill from the Templars and blood magic and all the recklessness of their lives. "I will always protect you, I promise."

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><p><strong>Blah... glad that's over with. Whoever reviewed and said transitional chapters left the author feeling like poo was absolutely correct, and I love her for how right she iswas.**

**Duel is imminent. There were just a few pieces of the puzzle I wanted to fill in before then. The drama... the passion... the grueling hour-long kiting of the Arishok. As well as a fair bit of angst, all coming to you, next chapter.**

**Please review, my pretties, the Arishok don't duel hisself. ;-)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Well, this was about as challenging as the actual duel itself. I promised you Qunari-killing, and I finally delivered. Now that this is done, the angst can begin.**

**Thank you all for sticking with me and the story. All of you are awesome sauce with a side of win!**

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><p>In all the time Merrill had known Hawke, ever since that day on Sundermount when she first sauntered up from the shadow of the mountain into the morning light like hero from one of the old stories so austere and confident, she had never seen the rogue appear uncertain.<p>

Not even when Isabela had revealed that she had known all along what the relic was, that it was the reason the Qunari remained in Kirkwall all these years, seeking this tome and the thief that had stolen it, had Hawke wavered. Without hesitation, she had agreed to help Isabela retrieve the relic to give to Castillon.

It made more sense to give the relic to the Qunari, but Hawke was different. There were things more important than the rising tension in the city, the fate of Kirkwall and its citizens. It was one of the many things she admired about Hawke. She strictly adhered to her own set of principles at the core of which was the people she cared about. The obvious choice was to give the cranky Qunari their book so they would leave, but what was more important to Hawke was the pirate she called a friend.

But then Isabela had disappeared with the relic and left only a letter.

"But she'll come back, won't she?" Merrill had asked plaintively as Hawke skimmed the letter. Isabela wouldn't leave, not without saying goodbye, not without some assurance of her return. She would not do that, not to Hawke and not to her. The pirate was her best friend besides Hawke. She wouldn't just leave.

Hawke's fist had tightened around the parchment, crushing it. She stood rigid, as if frozen by a spell, every muscle tense with subdued movement like a forest cat stilling before the pounce, as if coiling strength to be unleashed in one ferocious, lethal movement. Instead, she had relaxed and her fist opened allowing the letter to flutter to the ground.

"I don't know, Merrill," Hawke had whispered and simply walked away without turning back, as if nothing had happened.

Merrill had hesitated between following her lover and picking up the letter she had dropped. Stooping down, she retrieved the parchment and carefully unfolded it. Though hastily scrawled and smeared with dried blood, Merrill had no problem reading the letter. The difficulty had lain in understanding its meaning.

How was Isabela leaving best for all of them? What mess had she dragged them into? As far as an explanation went, this was a poor one at best. Not only would Hawke give Isabela the relic, she would battle Castillon until her dying breath. So would she, Merrill had realized fiercely. There was nothing she would not do for the pirate, nothing she would not do to protect her closest friend. Why didn't Isabela know that?

Sniffling, Merrill had folded the letter and tucked it safely into the new armor Hawke had given her. Her vision had blurred and hot tears had stained her cheeks as she jogged to catch up with Hawke, who had said nothing. Instead, she had wrapped an arm around the elf's shoulders and pulled her close.

Now, Isabela would never find them in the chaos even if she did return.

Merrill swung her staff viciously, casting a bolt of pulsing force towards one of the Qunari that sent him reeling backwards, away from Varric, who gave her a quick nod of gratitude before reloading Bianca. She pressed her lips together, already scanning for a new target. Ahead of her, Fenris and Aveline and Hawke were thrust in the thick of the fighting, a blur of armor and metal and blood and gray Qunari flesh. Even Aveline seemed small when compared to the Qunari warriors. Anders was having trouble keeping up with the healing needed.

They had fought all the way from the Qunari compound into the Viscount's keep without so much as a breath of respite. Even when Hawke had found Bethany in the Hightown courtyard, they had barely exchanged words before more Qunari attacked, and the battle began all over again.

Normally, when Merrill fought with the other companions, she picked each target carefully, searching for weaknesses and openings, each spell calculated to protect her companions. Today, however, any Qunari was a viable target. She cast spell after spell in a vicious frenzy of crackling energy and scalding ice, and when she felt herself teetering on the brink of exhaustion, she used her staff to send bolt after bolt towards her enemies until she recovered enough of her strength to begin casting again.

Surrendering to the loss of control, she hurtled a wave of flame towards three Qunari who attempted to flank Aveline from the left. The force of the fire cast them backwards, their skin cracking and charring. They writhed and twisted, trying to brush the fire away, trying to escape the flames that adhered to their skin like cobwebs. The heedless fighting was… gratifying, Merrill found. It left her feeling empowered, flushed with energy like the rush of an orgasm that did not subside.

It was exhilarating, and she fought a bubble of laughter that started in her gut and rose into her throat, sickened by her own reaction. Touching her fingers to her armor where she had tucked Isabela's letter, she swallowed determinedly and struggled to regain control of her magic, rein in her emotion.

For good measure, she sent another rippling wave of flame at the Qunari to ensure they would never get up. Quickly, she sought out Hawke just in time to see the rogue deftly dodge the arcing sweep of a Qunari blade and exploit the opening by jabbing one of her daggers into his midsection. She threw her entire body into twisting, the blade, spilling the Qunari's entrails on the plush red carpet of the Keep.

Only then did Merrill realize that there were no more targets, no more Qunari to fight in the Keep's anteroom, all lay dead or dying, and in some cases, smoking. Aveline stepped over the blackened corpses, scrunching her nose in disgust of the sickeningly appetizing aroma of roast pork that wafted from them. The rest of the companions came to the same realization as Merrill and slowly, raggedly reformed around Hawke.

Blood and fluid squelched in the carpet under her boots as she joined the others. Hawke was panting and wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smearing the blood that splattered her face. Fire blue eyes peered resolutely through the haze of red and brown blood. "Take a moment," She instructed her companions, sparing them each an appraising glance, always the leader, always taking stock of her people. "We will need our strength for whatever awaits us in the throne room."

Her eyes lingered on Merrill, softening. She rested her hand on the back of the elf's neck reassuringly. With nothing but her touch, the light pressure of her hand, the familiar texture of the callouses on her palm, Hawke managed to melt the remaining tension from her lover's frame. Merrill exhaled a breath she had not realized she had been holding and felt her muscles unknot and relax.

The brief moment of intimacy soothed her even amidst the gore and violence, creating a spark of calm that spread, enveloping her like warm, liquid silk. Merrill smiled up at Hawke, and gave a firm nod. Hawke's confidence in her renewed her strength and energy, fueled now by determination not to fail her lover rather than the frenzy of chaotic emotion. They would be okay; that's what Hawke's touch said. This would be over soon, they would find a way to stitch their lives back to normal, and Isabela would return to them.

But right now, she needed Merrill to be strong and focused.

When the wordless exchange between the lovers passed, Hawke withdrew her hand. "This will be my first time in the throne room. Shall we?"

* * *

><p>The last of the Qunari honor guard fell at Hawke's feet. Perhaps it was the brief moment of rest, but this fight had seemed easier than all the others. The nobles had retreated in clumps, away from the violence, hiding behind one another as if they might escape the notice of their Qunari captors.<p>

Hawke strode to face the Arishok, as if she were merely approaching a stranger to ask for directions. The Arishok was the most terrifying of the Qunari, and Merrill wondered if that was how they picked their leaders. Did they always choose the tallest one with the biggest horns and most frightening sneer to lead them? Varric had once told her that the Arishok was one of three; she would have to remember to ask him what the other two looked like.

Nudging the decapitated head of the viscount with her foot disinterestedly, Hawke leveled her gaze at the Arishok and arched a brow. "What now? I defended you and your kind against the prejudice of this city. Only to find you no better than they." She couldn't keep the sneer of disgust from coloring her voice, and if Merrill could have seen her expression, she was certain it would mirror her tone.

"You are basalit-an after all," The Arishok said, sweeping an appraising gaze over Hawke as if he were examining a piece of livestock for purchase. Appraisal faded to grudging wariness. "Few in this city command such respect. So tell me, Hawke, you know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without it?"

"I—"

Hawke's response was cut short by a sharp clamor behind them. Merrill whirled, staff at the ready.

"I believe I can answer that," Isabela stepped over the Qunari she had felled, full lips turned up in half smirk. She winked at Merrill as she passed, and the elf lowered her staff, grinning and fighting the urge to lunge forward and hug her friend. The pirate paused next to Hawke, and the two regarded each other for a moment.

And Hawke smiled.

As if remembering the Arishok, Isabela thrust the thick book clutched under her arm towards him. "I believe you'll find it mostly undamaged." Then, averting her attention back to the rogue, as if she had intruded on no more than a friendly conversation, she continued. "It took me awhile to get back, what with all the fighting everywhere. You know how it is." She shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief, she was thriving on the moment, Merrill realized, the gasps of astonishment at her dramatic entrance, like the dramatic climax in one of Varric's stories

"I thought you'd be long gone by now."

"This is your damned influence, Hawke." Isabela narrowed her eyes irritably at Hawke. "I was halfway to Ostwick before I knew I had to turn round." She paused, as if hesitant to continue and glimpsed over her shoulder at Merrill, their eyes locking for a brief moment before the pirate quickly looked away. "It's pathetic."

But it wasn't pathetic! Merrill wanted to shout at her, joyfully. Hawke had been right. Merrill felt as if her body hummed with reinvigoration, near giddy at the pirate's unexpected return. A tremor of elation threatened to escape her as an excited whoop, but the Arishok was talking again, so she refrained and smiled happily at the backs of her two favorite people.

"…with the thief."

"What?" Isabela's eyes snapped from the rogue to the Arishok.

"Oh, no no no." Aveline stepped forward to Isabela's side. "If anyone kicks her ass, it's me."

"You'll have to step in line behind me, Aveline." Hawke said dryly.

"She stole the Tome of Koslun." The Arishok hefted his axe threateningly onto his shoulder. "She must return with us."

"You have your relic. She stays with us." The sarcasm gone, Hawke's words took the sharp edge of defiance.

"Oh. I'm sure he'll take that well," Varric grunted from beside Merrill, shifting Bianca in his arms. Merrill took his cue and covertly eased her staff in front of her. They would not let them take the pirate. "Rivaini, you might want move a bit this way."

"Then you leave me no choice. I challenge you, Hawke," The Qunari leader pointed his sword at the rogue. "You and I will battle to the death with her as the prize."

"No!" Isabela cried incredulously side-stepping so she placed herself in between Hawke and the Arishok. "If you're going to duel anyone, duel me!"

Merrill's earlier elation fled, replaced by a clot of cold fear in her throat. Hawke would not decline the challenge; it was not who she was. Though her stubborn sense of honor was one of the things Merrill adored in her lover, one of the reasons she respected her so deeply, she did not want her to accept his challenge. It was foolish; the stakes too high. The Arishok was four times the size of Hawke, one of his weapons alone as tall as the rogue. She bit down on her lower lip until she tasted blood, torn between being proud of the woman she loved and wanting her to step down, just this once.

"I accept your challenge." Hawke stiffened defiantly, her shoulders squared, her eyes locked on the Arishok, disregarding the small cry that Merrill failed to stifle.

"Hawke, you bloody idiot, don't do this!" Isabela started for the rogue but Aveline and Fenris caught her by either arm, dragging her backwards. The rogue ignored her, ignored everyone as she silently padded to the center of the room, her gaze locked on her feet as if she were puzzling out a particular difficult problem.

"Hawke!" Isabela thrashed in her friends' grip, kicking blindly. Her boot caught Aveline in the shin, and the guard captain grunted but did not release her. "Hawke!"

Aveline whipped her head from left to right until she spotted Merrill and gestured her over with a jerk of the head. "Merrill! She'll—Dammit, Isabela— listen to you." The guard captain had to raise her voice to be heard over the pirate's protests and curses and demands for release.

"Damn it, Hawke! Marion! _Marion!_" It was odd to hear Hawke's given name spoken; not even Merrill ever called Hawke by her first name, not even in moments at the height of passion. Coming from Isabela it sounded like a desperate plea for absolution, for reassurance, a child's cry. In a movement borne of pure instinct, Merrill reached out and framed the pirate's face in her hands, feeling oddly composed. She turned Isabela's face towards her, away from where Hawke and the Arishok faced each other.

The pirate's honey golden eyes darted wildly before finally yielding to the insistence of Merrill's touch. "Everything will be alright, Isabela. I promise." Despite that she did not know how it could be, how Hawke could ever manage to triumph in single combat with the giant Arishok, Merrill refused to entertain the possibility that it wouldn't be alright. "Hawke will make everything alright."

The words took long moments to register, the pirate's breath coming in uneven, frustrated pants as her muscles bunched under the restraining hands of Aveline and Fenris, and Varric who had grabbed ahold of her legs to keep her from kicking. Merrill forced herself to smile in what she hoped was a comforting way and smoothed the wild tendrils of hair from the pirate's face, tucking them behind her ear.

When her body finally did relax, her legs buckled from under her and Varric had to roll away to avoid being sat on as Isabela slumped to her knees. But Merrill was there to help lower her slowly, to prevent her from collapsing entirely. "Hawke will make everything alright now, Isabela." Merrill sank to her knees next the pirate, wrapped her arms around her. "You'll see."

She followed Isabela's gaze to Hawke, to the Arishok who had lowered his weapons, one in either hand and advanced. "So shall it be." He rumbled, his voice an echo of thunder against the high ceilings and stone walls. She hoped that she was right. Creators, please let her be right.

* * *

><p><em>Balls<em>, Hawke thought grimly as she rolled out of the way of the Arishok's charge, an instant too slowly. The razor edge of his axe sliced through the leather of her armor covering her back as he charged by. Ignoring the stinging wetness, she rolled onto her feet and ran. This was either the stupidest thing she had ever done or the noblest. Dueling for Isabela's life, as if she were a prize to be won, with a creature twice as big as a bull and as smart and fierce as a dragon.

It was not one of her smarter moments. She risked a glance over her shoulder just in time to duck as his axe slammed into the pillar where her neck had been an instant before, spraying her in chipped rock and dust. The throne room would collapse on them before this was over.

She had been fighting the Arishok for what seemed like hours with no significant gain in advantage for either of them. She was only able to score small hits here and there in between dodging and outright fleeing from his blades. One good swipe from either his sword or axe would end her. He had size and bulk to his advantage, but she had speed and agility. Normally, coupled with her skill, her superior speed was enough to best larger and stronger opponents.

But there was a point where no matter how fast she dodged, no matter how deftly she darted and thrust, that it would not be enough. The Arishok might be that point. She was hoping to wear him down gradually, until he began to weaken from the superficial wounds she had managed to inflict, until he slowed, fatigued by the chase. But the Qunari leader seemed as determined as ever to end her.

Hawke allowed the Arishok to come within reach and as he prepared to cleave her with both weapons, she pivoted on the ball of her foot at the last moment, twisting so her back was to him, evading the strike and plunging one of her daggers into his side. The Arishok roared in what sounded more like indignation than pain and flung his arm out, catching the rogue in the face with an audible crunch and sending her sprawling backwards.

The back of her head struck the floor of the throne room with a crack that caused the edges of her vision to fade. _Up_! Her mind screamed_. Up, you stupid cow!_ But her body refused to comply. The floor was comfortable, and if she could just close her eyes for a moment… No, she had to get up. She rolled onto her side, her cheek pressed against the cool, slightly abrasive fibers of the carpet. She doggedly pushed herself up, first to her knees, then to her feet, swaying slightly.

_Oh, mother balls…_ She had recovered just to see a blur of grey and red hurtle directly at her. The Arishok's horns caught her in the chest with the nauseating snap of ribs and she was soaring backwards again. Her back slammed against a pillar, abruptly halting her flight. She pitched forward on her hands and knees, wheezing, desperate to suck in air. The blow had knocked the wind out of her, and she instinctively gasped trying to breathe despite the stabbing agonizing fire in her chest.

Hawke spat the gummy iron taste from her mouth and swallowed hard, her jaw clenching and her fists tightening on the grip of her dagger. She had lost one of her blades, but she could not remember when. She coughed and pink froth splattered her hands and the ground. A detached part of her mind studied the pink bubbles that were a sure sign that one of her lungs had been punctured, no doubt by one of the broken ribs.

A mortal wound.

Time faded into nonexistence as she raised her head, seeking out her friends. Isabela and Merrill clutched each other, on the ground, surrounded by the rest of the companions. Anders, who could be a prick, but was genuinely a kind-hearted, compassionate man. Aveline's jaw was clenched, and Hawke wondered at the hand she rested on Isabela's shoulder. Fenris was such a somber bastard, but they shared a unique understanding of one another despite any differences of opinion. Varric clutched Bianca against his chest, his finger on her trigger. She studied where each of her friends stood, the fear and consternation painted on their faces.

Isabela was shades paler than Hawke had ever seen her, mouth set in a grim line. Tears streamed down Merrill's face, frightened tears. As if weighted down with lead, Hawke forced herself to her knees, then shifted one foot under her, then the other. She was going to die without magical intervention, and maybe even with it. But not before she ended this. Not for her sake, but for her friends, her family. They would not have to finish where she had failed.

Her movements felt disjointed, jerky as her balance wavered. Her focus zeroed in on the Arishok who approached her slowly, reading the signs of her demise as well as she.

The certainty of her own death was mysteriously comforting. Her strength depleted, ebbing away with the blood that seeped from her wounds, filled her lungs. Not much time before she drowned in her own blood. But with that knowledge accompanied certainty, bolstered by the inevitability of the end. Hawke closed her eyes and inhaled, feeling the ragged wetness of the breath and stifling the cough. Just a little longer, and this would be over.

When she opened her eyes, she and the Arishok were alone. But when he thrust both weapons forward, he did so into an empty space where she had been a breath before. She dropped to her knees and rolled forward, tucking into a ball, rolling between his legs, slicing his thigh in what she hoped was a deep enough wound, maybe with luck she might cut through his femoral artery. She did not pause to check. On her feet before the Qunari could react, she drove her remaining dagger into his back twice, where his kidneys sat.

Blinded either by rage or pain, the Arishok swung around clumsily, the point of his sword catching Hawke in the shoulder. With his full weight, he drove her backwards, towards the steps that led to the throne. If he pinned her, she was truly finished. Ignoring the lancing pain, she planted her feet to resist his advance, and the sword drove deeper into her flesh. She was beyond pain then; the dead felt no pain. Closer, she needed to be just a little closer for him to be within reach of her blade.

A distant part of her felt the snap of her collar bone as the sword wrenched through flesh and muscle, tearing through the bone and cartilage to exit the other side of her body. A scream, an animal shriek, ripped from her throat, but it ended up sounding more like a gargle. Her face was wet, but not from sweat or blood.

Almost.

Everything blurred and then darkened, dark puddles forming at the edge of her eyes. It had to be now. Summoning what remained of her will, her physical strength broken with her body, she lifted her dagger and plunged it into the hollow of the Arishok's throat at an upward angle. She attempted to twist it, to drive it deeper but the hilt slipped from her fingers as even her uninjured arm dangled to her side, useless. She hoped it was enough as the blackness took her.

She hoped Merrill would forgive her.

* * *

><p>Isabela watched the fight, rapt with horror, petrified by the merciless violence visited upon her friend because of her. Bile rose in her throat as she heard the deafening snap and crunch of the Arishok's blade punching through Hawke's shoulder.<p>

She had seen the rogue's face, gazed into her eyes from across the room the second time the Arishok had knocked her down. Hawke had lifted her face to the companions for only a second, but the calm acceptance with which she regarded them would haunt Isabela for the rest of her life, she was certain. Stoicism was replaced by serenity, smirk replaced by a not-quite smile.

How could she be so foolish? She should have taken the relic and run and kept running, not turned back. But something had happened on her way to Ostwick. Instead of hearing the rapidly beating hooves of the horse she had stolen, she heard Aveline's voice, neither mocking nor derisive, simply stating observation or truth.

"_I believe Donnic to be as incapable of infidelity as you are of basic human decency."_

The words became a knot stuck in her throat. And as hard as she tried to block the words, they repeated over and over in her mind. She tried thinking of anything else, of the whores at the Blooming Rose, and when that failed, she indulged in rare fantasies featuring the real thing instead of insufficient look-alikes. But that only made it worse.

She didn't care what Aveline thought, not really anyway.

It was what Hawke thought of her, what Merrill thought. They were the only two people in the world who insisted that beneath all the lying and cheating and thieving and manipulating, that Isabela was a good person. They clung to this belief so fervently that they forgave her anything, any betrayal, any shortcoming.

Would they forgive her now? Her one attempt to do something a little less self-centered turned out to be the most selfish thing she could have possibly done. In returning, Hawke was willing to sacrifice herself to prevent the Qunari from punishing her for a crime that she had freely admitted to committing. By trying to do the right thing, Merrill now trembled against her as she watched her lover suffer unbearably.

Feelings always clouded the truth. The smart thing would have been to stay as far away from the people she cared about as possible. Not return out of some misguided notion of selflessness. But even the motives behind her altruism were selfish. She had wanted, if for just a moment, to be the person they thought she was. No, they had been wrong all along, and Aveline had been right. Isabela wasn't a good person; she would never be who they saw her as. Hawke was the hero; Isabela was the villain.

And then it was over.

With a final flail of perseverance, Hawke managed to jam her remaining blade into the Arishok's throat. He gurgled, his hands immediately releasing the sword that impaled the rogue to clutch fruitlessly at his throat.

Isabela did not wait for him to fall. She was on her feet, darting to the rogue's side where she had crumpled. She gingerly lifted her head to rest in her lap while a seasoned fighter's eye took account of her injuries. There were so many. Too many. And what concerned her most where the injuries she could not see. Merrill was next to her, very pale and quiet. The elf worried her lower lip with her teeth and looked to Isabela with her wide, leaf-green eyes, as if seeking reassurance, and she felt her heart break.

"She's a fighter, Kitten. She'll live out of sheer stubbornness." Isabela managed to say with a forced smile. "Besides, I've never seen a wound Anders can't mend."

Anders knelt next to Hawke, his hands immediately pressed to her chest, as if sensing the injury. His hands glowed blue, then green before he shook his head. "I will need another Mage," He barely concealed the sneer as he added. "One that can heal."

"Bethany was with the Templars fighting outside the Keep." Aveline towered over them, her fair skin blanched completely white. She looked at no one as she spoke, her eyes locked on Hawke as if she were frightened to glimpse away, that if she turned for just a second, when she looked back the rogue might not… "I'll fetch her."

"No," Anders shook his head. "I need you to pull this damn sword from her shoulder. Quick. And be ready to help me apply pressure."

"I shall fetch Bethany." Fenris bowed his head, already sprinting towards the doors of the throne room, for once not displaying any contempt for the use of magic.

"Merrill." Isabela shifted Hawke's head as she exchanged positions with the elf, and quickly snatched her bandana from her head, wrapping it around her hand. "I'll apply pressure, Aveline." She heard Varric pushing the crowd of cheering nobles back, away from Hawke. He shouted at them to give them room or else they'd never get the chance to thank their savior personally.

How could they cheer at a time like this? Isabela wanted to scream at them, to run at them in a flurry of daggers and fists. Hawke had saved them all, saved _her_. Yet now she was dying, and they could care less now that their worthless hides were safe.

The guard captain fixed both hands around the hilt of the massive sword, leaning down so her shoulder was parallel with the sword's guard to give her more leverage. Anders nodded at her, and she yanked. The sword slid free, and blood began to flow unimpeded from the wound.

Isabela pressed both hands over the wound, standing on her knees to put the weight of her body behind the pressure, but blood still seeped between her fingers, her bandana quickly saturated. Hawke did not stir, she did not react at all. The only sign she was still alive were the sudden, sporadic heaving of her chest as she struggled to breathe. She pushed down as hard as she could, and turned her head to the side so she would not have to see the steady ooze of crimson staining her hands.

Instead she looked at Merrill, who was focused solely on Hawke's face, her slender fingers delicately running through the rogue's dark hair, as if she were watching her sleep. "Merrill—" Isabela choked on her name and swallowed hard. "I'm so sorry."

"No," Merrill said softly and cupped her lover's cheek, and Isabela quickly squeezed her eyes shut. Merrill at least needed to know how sorry she was, not that it mattered. She wasn't worthy of forgiveness, but she needed the elf to know, to understand that this was never what she had wanted.

"I was a fool. I should have never come back. I never would if I'd have known—"

"No," Merrill repeated calmly over the bone-jarring clamor of heavy boots and clanging plate armor as the Templars stormed into the throne room. "Hawke would not blame you, and neither do I. This isn't your fault, Isabela. You did what you thought was right, and so did Hawke."

"Maker!" Bethany dropped down next to her sister, across from where Anders was concentrating, ignoring the chaos that surrounded them, trying to save Hawke by casting a steady glow of healing in her chest. Isabela studied the younger Hawke sister eagerly. Bethany would not fail her sister, no matter what had happened between them.

Anders grabbed the other Mage's hands without preamble. "We have to do this together. Once we can heal the damage done to her lungs, we'll be able to move her back to the estate, where I can continue to work on her. But I can't save her alone."

Bethany nodded resolutely. The Circle robes did not suit her, Isabela thought. But the Circle Mage who held the hands of an apostate was no longer the young girl she used to tease about sex. She was a woman now, and with an adult's determination, she summoned the well of her power to her, knowing that the magic she had always been so frightened of was now the only thing that might save her sister.

A shadow darkened Hawke's face, and Isabela craned her neck to peer up at the Templar behind her. She was a striking woman, with eyes as fierce and blue as Hawke's but with none of their compassion. Long blond hair cascaded to her shoulders, hooded in crimson. She was… handsome in a way, Isabela decided, but as cold steel as the plate armor she wore, all harsh angles and an unyielding facade. A dangerous woman.

She seemed disinterested in the desperation of their plight, as if she were studying a bug she could not decide whether or not to squash. "It appears," When she spoke, it was as if the entire Keep hushed at her voice. "That Kirkwall has a new Champion." She did not bother to mask her indifference as she turned to stride away. "If she manages to survive."

* * *

><p><strong>Balls. Glad that is done. Let the angst fest commence!<strong>

**As always, your reviews and feedback are not only appreciated, but lusted for. Work has been sucking major Qunari cock, so I really do appreciate each and every review. Thank you for all of y'all's support. It means the world to me.**


	9. Chapter 9

**I apologize for the delay in updates, y'all. Personal life has been crazy. But, good news is I'm finally moved into the new house and mostly unpacked.**

**I've had this obligatory chapter mostly written, but because this is sort of another transitional chapter (I love you, Elizabeth Carter) I decided to change things up and the majority of it is written from Aveline's point of view, for funsies. As much fun as the angsty love fest is, I decided I wanted to focus on different aspects of the story with this chapter. And poor ol' Lady Man-Hands does not give as much love from the fandom community as I think she should. She is kind of the Neville Longbottom or Ron Weasley of DA2. Best friend of our hero, but kind of overshadowed.**

**I think I tend to go on little tangents that branch off from the main story because I want to explore different ideas. So, sorry for that, but I go wherever my curiosity takes me.**

**Thank you all for the continued support, updates shall start coming more regularly again. I miss writing our girls. Beeteedubs, all mistakes are mine. **

* * *

><p>The Hawke estate was abnormally silent. Like low hanging storm clouds, the quiet was stifling, oppressive. Every sound was deafening: the crack of the fire in the hearth, the rustle of fabric as someone shifted positions, the hitch of breath as someone faltered. None of the companions spoke; words merely deepened the tension of forced normalcy. Nothing was normal right now.<p>

Even Varric was quiet. In fact, he almost seemed to be sleeping, slouched in one of the enormous arm chairs of the library. His feet barely hung over the edge of the chair, a sight that might have been comical in different circumstances. Isabela had pulled a chair next to Aveline's in front of the fire. The pirate leaned forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. She stared vacantly into the fire, uncharacteristically pensive. Her hands were still covered in blood. Hawke's blood.

Aveline watched the pirate out of the corner of her eye. By all rights, she should have shackled the pirate and thrown her into the brig. Would that accomplish anything? Would it repair the ravaged city? Would it heal Hawke and rescue her from the edge of death? No. It was better to allow the pirate to figure out on her own how to atone for her deeds. Besides, if her current demeanor was any evidence at all, it was clear that guilt was already gnawing at her. For Isabela, unaccustomed to such emotions as regret and remorse, that was by far a more fitting punishment.

She would play it off later, of course. Laugh it off or make a joke of it or deny that she ever had such a weakness; it wasn't in her nature to acknowledge vulnerability, but Aveline knew better. She had seen Isabela's tight expression, the skin around her lips and eyes pinched, her normally olive skin blanched, while Hawke battled the Arishok, had been the one to initially restrain her from interfering. Aveline respected Hawke's decision to shoulder the burden of the duel; she would make damn sure that Isabela respected it as well.

She always respected Hawke's decisions, even if she disagreed with them. If it weren't for Hawke and her family, she would have never escaped the Blight, never made it into Kirkwall. After Wesley died, she had no one, but Hawkes had brought her along, took her in even though they had no reason too. Leandra was kind, treated her as a surrogate daughter, perhaps because she empathized having also lost her husband. Hawke and Bethany had been as sisters to her. Bethany, the frightened, naive girl who wanted nothing more than to be normal, who had been considerate even though Wesley had been a Templar and she an apostate.

And Hawke went out of her way to make Aveline feel included, cared for, with no ulterior motives. She had been compassionate from the start, helping steady Aveline's hand when she faltered with Wesley, giving her a nod of encouragement, letting her know she was doing the right thing. Afterwards, she had not coddled Aveline, had not insulted her by constantly asking how she was doing, if she was okay. Hawke never refused her, always answered when she needed help with the Guards, even if there was no coin in it, or even the personal matter of Donnic. She always consulted the guard captain for her opinion, but made her own decisions according to her conscience regardless of what others thought of it. Aveline respected that, more than she had ever told Hawke.

Now Bethany was locked away in the Gallows, and Aveline wondered how she would have felt if Wesley were still alive and had been the one to drag her away to the Circle. Leandra was dead which might be a mercy given her eldest daughter's circumstances. Hawke was upstairs with Anders and Merrill attending to her, hovering somewhere between life and death, hanging onto the last vestiges of this world by a mere thread. She still had Donnic, but it was different with him. He was her husband. She had spent year after year following the rogue around, keeping her out of trouble, counseling her when Bethany was taken away, enduring her good-natured teasing. Hawke called Aveline her shield and said that she was Aveline's blade, the part of her that got bloody and dirty. Hawke was the only family she had left, the only piece of Ferelden and the life she had before that remained. Who would she be if she lost that?

Anders appeared in a doorway, his presence sensed rather than heard. "I have done all I can." He dropped onto the footstool next to Aveline's chair, rubbed his face with his hands. The healer was haggard, pale, the stubble of a beard like ruddy dirt on his chin and jaw. "She is alive, but barely. I have repaired the damage done to her ribs and lungs, but she has aspirated a great deal of blood and lost even more. Pneumonia could settle in, and in her current state, she would not be able to fight the infection." He had drained himself of all energy, trying to save Hawke, pushed himself to the limits of his own endurance.

"You should eat something, Anders." Aveline said sternly, placing a hand gently on his knee. "I know of no other healer to call should you fall out."

The Mage seemed not to have heard her, did not react to her touch. "I did what I could with her shoulder but... it is too soon to tell if she will regain full use of her arm. Merrill is with her now. Someone should always be with her."

Varric pushed himself off of his chair and went to Anders, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Blondie. You did everything you could. Let's go raid Hawke's kitchen. You look like you've been starving yourself in the Deep Roads for a month."

* * *

><p>In the wan light of the bedroom, Hawke appeared like a corpse laid out for burial. Her armor, damaged beyond repair, had been cut away along with all her clothing. They had laid her on the bed, covered her up to her chest for modesty's sake, but her arms lay on top of the covers at her sides. Her injured shoulder had been bandaged with long strips of clean linen. The only movements she made were the slow, shallow rising and falling of her chest.<p>

She was still breathing, that was something at least.

A chair had been pulled up to the bedside, and the Dalish elf sat in it, her elbows on the bed and her chin in her hands. She seemed even smaller than normal in the oversized chair.

"Merrill," Aveline gently rested a hand on the elf's knee and dropped into a crouch beside her. When her touch elicited no response, Aveline repeated, more firmly. "Merrill."

Finally, she looked at the guard captain, her wide eyes red-rimmed and watery. The way Merrill looked at Aveline, as if she could somehow fix this, fix Hawke, broke through the Aveline's normal wariness of the elf. Merrill wasn't a blood mage, not right now at least. Right now she looked younger than the guard captain would have believed possible, vulnerable, terrified. She loved Hawke, and Hawke adored her in turn. What would become of her if she lost Hawke? What would become of all of them?

"Why don't you go with Isabela, Merrill? Get something to eat, clean up, rest." Aveline suggested quietly.

Merrill swiftly looked away, back at her lover. "I can't leave Hawke."

"Hawke needs you strong, now more than ever. You have to take care of yourself. That's what she would want."

Merrill looked from Aveline, to Hawke, and back again. "What if she wakes and I'm not here? I can't leave her, Aveline! What if she needs something? What if-"

"I'll be here. I promise to come get you." Merrill still seemed hesitant, and looked back at Hawke. In other circumstances, Aveline would never see herself comforting a blood mage, looking out for her well-being. Nor did she see herself keeping company with a thieving, traitorous pirate or fanatical apostate. But Hawke had a way of bringing people together, of making others see the best in others, even those with radically different viewpoints and personalities. And after all they had all been through together, she could not help but empathize, not with the blood mage, but with the young Dalish exile who was watching her lover barely cling to life. "Isabela."

The pirate had been standing at the foot of the bed, staring at Hawke as if entranced. Aveline began to suspect that she hadn't heard a word of the exchange, but she abruptly snapped out of her reverie. "Big Girl is right, Kitten. Let's go clean up, get something to eat. We can come back as soon as we're done." The pirate held out a hand to the elf.

Slowly, Merrill stood and nodded, taking the hand extended to her.

Aveline watched the two friends exit and wondered at the bond they shared. Merrill seemed to be the only person Isabela allowed through her emotional barriers, yet they were so different. The only thing they seemed to have in common was the one thread that held all the companions together.

Taking the seat the elf had vacated, Aveline began her vigil.

The sun had set long ago, and with no variation in light to stream through the window behind her, it was difficult to mark the passage of time. It passed slowly or quickly, as if a window to eternity could be found in the bedroom. There was no variation in the rogue's condition either, and Aveline pulled her chair closer to take the rogue's hand after a time.

"Hawke," Aveline doubted the rogue could hear her but found it did not matter. The words were as more a comfort to her, a break in the deathly silence. "Hawke, please try." Though she had not expected one, she was devastated by the lack of response. "Hawke… please try." She repeated plaintively, and clutched Hawke's hand with both of hers. The rogue's delicate hand was so small, so fragile in comparison to her own.

"I cannot—" She felt her voice break but did not try to swallow the ache in her throat or blink away the sting in her eyes. She had not cried, even as she had ended Wesley's life. Her mourning had been done in private, away from pitying eyes. But Hawke had always seemed to know when Wesley was on her mind, always offering her wordless solace in a touch or gesture. "I cannot do without you." The tears fell freely with the words, and Aveline gasped raggedly a few times, unable to speak. "Please…" She was desperate for some sign, some whisper of acknowledgment that Hawke could hear her, but was only greeted with more silence, more stillness.

"Hawke, you must try. We cannot do this without you. I've tried to bear everything, I will try…" She pressed her forehead to the back of Hawke's hand, the skin cool and waxen against her own. "But the City needs you; we need you. You're what holds us together." Her tears dropped onto Hawke's hand.

She lifted her head to look at her friend, feeling desperation boil in her chest, frantic for her to wake up, to move, to at least groan or mumble. It was a feeling akin to panic, something altogether unfamiliar to the normally steadfast guard captain. She _needed_ Hawke to be alright. "Hawke… do not leave us alone." Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her lips to the rogue's hand, clutching it fretfully. "Do not leave me alone."

* * *

><p>At any given time, at least one of the companions sat in vigil at Hawke's bedside. Merrill was a near constant presence, either standing next to the window, gazing into the gardens, or lying next to Hawke in the bed, careful not to touch her. The only time she left the room was when Isabela or Aveline or Varric forced her out, making sure she ate and washed, assuring her that she would be the first to know if the rogue awakened.<p>

Isabela alternated between watching her young Dalish friend and the injured rogue. She and Merrill did not talk much, she could not think of what to say in moments like these and for once the elf preferred to remain quiet. So she watched. She never slept while the elf did, as if her condition was as dire as Hawke's.

The hardest thing to endure was Merrill's reassurances. She would grab Isabela's hand when she thought the pirate wasn't looking and held it, squeezed it in her own much smaller hand. Isabela would not pull it away, and together they would sit and watch Hawke battle for each breath, hoping that any moment she might open her eyes or cough or give some sign that she was not ready to join the Maker or the Creators or whatever awaited them once mortality took its toll.

It had been nearly three days since the duel, and Hawke had not stirred. Ironically, it was the first time Isabela ever stayed the night at the estate, and she wasn't even getting sex out of the deal, but she could not bring herself to leave. Not until she knew Hawke was okay, that Merrill would be okay.

Hawke's face was ashen and drawn; she had lost weight in just a few days. Her breathing had slowed to a deep, steady rhythm and she only sporadically gasped now. Her arms lay at her side, unmoving. It was frightening to see her so still.

Isabela pushed out of the arm chair pulled to the side of Hawke's bed and stretched. She had been almost as constant a presence as Merrill, who was curled in a ball next to her lover, one hand extended, resting on Hawke's uninjured arm. Her injured arm seemed paler than the rest of her, if that was possible. Isabela quickly looked away from the bandaged shoulder and went to the fire instead, arms crossed over her chest.

The thought that Hawke might die was unbearable enough. The notion that she had sacrificed herself to protect Isabela was enough to make her insides squirm with a very uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling, to ache in a way that was physical. What was worse than both those things, was Hawke surviving but without the use of her arm. Anders said he had not known how extensive the damage would be; he healed her best as he could, returning daily when his energy had rejuvenated, and healed her further. He had said that she would keep her arm, which was a good sign, but beyond that they would not know for some time.

The idea of a crippled Hawke made Isabela nauseous. Hawke was a fighter; who would she be without a dagger in both hands? Isabela loved to watch the rogue fight. There was something innately appealing about a woman who could hold her own against stronger, better equipped combatants. And Hawke always did more than just hold her own. She moved with a cat's grace and speed, dancing in and out of reach of her opponent, only to pop up behind them when they least expected it. Isabela depended on stealth and subterfuge for many of her attacks.

Hawke was the opposite. She wanted her enemy to see her, to see what they wanted to see, anticipate attacks that never came, feints that turned into committed attacks. She moved unlike anyone Isabela had ever seen. Perpetually in motion, never slowing, using her whole body to fight. Always kicking, jumping, rolling, dodging, moving like a flooded river, rushing and crashing forward, only gaining momentum. Yet every action was deliberate, calculated to connect with her opponent or distract him. Isabela had never seen anything like it, such raw speed and talent combined with such meticulous control.

Hawke would not be Hawke without her ability to fight. Isabela fought the image of her broken, one arm dangling limp and useless at her side, away. Guilt was for the weak. The Pirate Queen never expressed remorse. There was no use dwelling on what was past, unchangeable.

Yet, she could feel it like a writhing worm in her gut, gnawing her insides, eating away at her. She hadn't drank since the duel. There had not been time. Surely her body was just protesting the imposed sobriety.

"Mmff…" A quiet moan from the bed caused the pirate to whirl and dart to the bedside in one motion. Hawke was turning her head, back and forth but her eyes were still closed. She groaned again, barely audible this time, and Isabela placed her hand on the rogue's wrist.

The touch stilled Hawke's weak thrashing, and she turned her head towards the pirate, her eyes fluttering open with obvious effort.

Isabela felt her throat constrict with what took a moment to register as laughter. Brilliant blue eyes, the color of the mountain ice as it melted in the sun, slowly focused on her, and her own eyes blurred with tears. Of all the stupid things to _do_, Isabela thought. _Cry._

The rogue opened her mouth but simply coughed, licked her lips and tried again. "W-water," she croaked.

Fumbling with the pitcher on the bedside table, she poured water into an earthenware cup and held it to the rogue's lips. Most of the water dribbled down her chin and the corners of her mouth, but eventually she managed to take at least two good sips before her head collapsed back onto the pillow and she gasped with the exertion.

Wiping the spilled water from Hawke's chin with the corner of the sheet, Isabela forced a smile. "You'd make a lousy pirate, you know. You can't even hold your water, let alone rum."

"You're right," Hawke inhaled deeply, as if speaking depleted all of her strength. Her voice was frayed, ragged like the edges of ripped cloth. "I can hardly swim. I'd be useless if I fell overboard."

"No pirate worth her salt would ever fall overboard!" Isabela said incredulously, the relief she felt was like an unexpected rain shower on a sweltering afternoon. Hawke was awake, speaking, and joking, in her own way. She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the injured arm. "How do you feel?"

"Like I've been stampeded over by a herd of Qunari." Hawke turned her head away from Isabela, as if that were the only part of her body she could move, her eyes settling on the still sleeping elf beside her. Merrill twitched slightly in her sleep, curled into a tighter ball.

Isabela followed her gaze and momentarily lost her voice. When she found it again, she feigned nonchalance. "We should wake Kitten, I'll—" She reached over Hawke to nudge the elf awake, but was stopped by Hawke's gaze.

"Don't. Let her rest. Please." Isabela withdrew her hand, startled. Hawke closed her eyes, seemingly exhausted. "If any of us deserves the truth as to why you came back, it is her, you know." When she opened her eyes again, Hawke's gaze seemed to strip her naked, and not in a good, sexy way but in a way that made the pirate feel vulnerable, exposed. As if with her eyes she could expose the truth, knock down her defenses, leave her open and raw.

Isabela quickly looked away from Hawke, from Merrill, into the smoldering fire. She let the flames dance in her sight, without really seeing them. Damn Hawke to the Void. "I meant it. It was your damned influence. Tramping around this bloody city, trying to save it from itself for years. I couldn't see it burn. Kirkwall has started to grow on me." She smirked. "Like a fungus. Or a venereal disease."

Hawke scoffed, but came out sounding more like a choked groan. Perhaps it was the fatigue or the pain the rogue was surely still in, but she did not seem as indulgent as usual. Generally, she never pushed at the pirate's barriers, her emotional walls, her defenses, never prodded too hard. She allowed her to dance away from touchy subjects, accepted her denials. Not now.

Isabela could see it in her eyes when she turned to face Hawke again. "You don't care about Kirkwall. If you don't tell her, tell me the truth at least. I did save you in a rather dashing, dazzling duel, after all." Hawke said wryly, her eyes closing again, as if staying awake were a battle as harrowing as the one with the Arishok.

"I didn't ask you to duel that giant goatfucker for me," Isabela hissed venomously. "I didn't ask anything of you or anyone!"

"I didn't just do it for you." Hawke replied calmly, her uninjured arm shifting so she could clutch Merrill's hand, who whimpered quietly in her sleep but gave no signs of waking. "And I would do it all over again, regardless. Is it so bad to have people who care about you?"

Glancing from Hawke to Merrill, Isabela shook her head and snorted. "Truth." As gingerly as possible, she reached over the rogue and swept the bangs from the elf's brow. "I didn't do it for them." She whispered, ashamed of the admission. She lifted her delicate fingers to Hawke's cheek, and repeated the gesture with her, brushing that errant lock that always fell in her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. "I did it for you. It was always about you."

* * *

><p><strong>Boo-yah! I wish we actually saw Isabela speak those infamous lines of dialogue, but oh well. Maybe next time, Bioware.<strong>

**I'd also like to thank Emma Thompson for inspiring me for Aveline's scenes of desperation.**

**As always, please leave feedback. It takes a moment of your time and makes my metaphorical author-cock hard. Thank you all so much. **


	10. Chapter 10

**For some reason, it has been an uber-productive week for me. Completed another story, wrote three features for work, about to add another chapter here, put together three packets, designed some ceremony propaganda, and put my name in the hat for Farsi at the Defense Language Institute. Fingers crossed, people.**

**I feel like I have this really complex relationship with each chapter. At the end of every chapter, I break up with them, then when I start dating the next chapter, I'm lamenting ever breaking up with the previous chapter and remembering how good things were back when me and Chapter 9 were a couple... we were so much better for each other than me and Chapter 10 could ever be... so I'm going to break up with Chapter 10 now, and start the vicious cycle all over again with Chapter 11. Son of a bitch. **

**Guess the metaphor got away from me, eh? I've completely lost the point.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"Balls!" Hawke swore as her dagger clattered to the ceramic tile of the garden patio. She immediately clutched her shoulder with the opposite hand and abandoned the fight. She had extended her arm too far, straining the still healing tendons and muscles as she attempted to spin and strike in an opening below her opponent's shield in what would have been a simple maneuver. A maneuver that would have been simple before her duel with the Arishok.<p>

Luckily, her opponent immediately dropped her assault, as well as her shield and sword and was at Hawke's side, brow furrowed in concern. Hawke shrugged off Aveline's hand. "I'm fine," she insisted, despite the hitch in her breath.

Merrill abandoned the book she had been reading and bounded from her spot underneath a nearby tree. Even though the martial arts were a skill she could never hope to master, she enjoyed watching the daily sparring bouts between her lover and Aveline and sometimes Fenris. It was like a dance. A spontaneous, beautiful dance even as Hawke healed and gradually recovered from her wounds. At first she was slow, yet still deliberate and lethal. But she had improved over the past few months, regaining her speed and flexibility.

But there were still moments like this one, when Hawke would unexpectedly drop something or push herself too hard, and Merrill would always rush to her side.

"Maybe that's enough for today?" Merrill said softly, carefully folding her hands around Hawke's shoulder. The elf glanced over her shoulder to the Guard Captain. Aveline had become a powerful ally lately whenever Hawke was being silly and stubborn, when she tried to push herself and risked hurting herself all over again.

"I think Merrill is right." Aveline gave a curt, half nod and squatted down to pick up Hawke's dagger. She weighed it thoughtfully in her hand before extending it to her friend. "You are almost back to normal. There is no sense pushing harder than your body will allow."

The beads of cold sweat that broke out on Hawke's upper lip had nothing to do with exertion or the heat, Merrill knew. The rogue was hurting though she would refuse to admit it. "I don't _feel_ like I'm back to normal."

"What do you want Hawke? You are lucky to be alive, let alone have use of your arm. It's a miracle your life has extended this far. It's only been six months." Merrill thought Aveline sounded a lot like the Keeper whenever she lectured, and wondered why she and Donnic had no children. "Do you remember being skewered and tossed around the Keep like a doll? Because I can still see it whenever I close my eyes."

Hawke gently removed Merrill's hands from her shoulder, smiled at her and squeezed them reassuringly before releasing them and answering the guard captain. "Trust me, Aveline. I remember. Every time I twist the wrong way or pick up something that's too heavy, I remember."

Aveline sheathed her sword and slung her shield onto her back while Merrill scampered back to her tree to retrieve her book. "Why you dueled that overgrown goat for that _idiot_, I will never understand." Aveline continued as they fell in step beside Hawke as she headed inside.

Merrill tried to stifle a smile but failed. Aveline might grumble about her, but the mere fact that she did not constantly refer to Isabela as "that whore" anymore was testament enough that the guard captain had softened where the pirate was concerned. If only Isabela were still around, she would never believe the change.

The smile turned to a frown, and Merrill had not heard Hawke's response. No one had seen Isabela in months, not since the night Hawke had first awakened after the duel. Merrill had awakened to the sound of the pirate's throaty laugh and husky voice, teasing Hawke about not being able to hold her water.

She still did not know why she did not open her eyes then, why she had waited and pretended to be sleeping as the two rogues talked. She felt as though she should have shot up, tackled (albeit gently since Hawke was still hurt) her lover and kissed her all over. But she hadn't. Instead, she listened.

Fingers had ghosted across her brow, brushing her hair from her forehead like Isabela did all the time, only this time it felt different, and Merrill had clamped down on the inside of her cheek to keep from whimpering aloud again.

"I didn't do it for them. I did it for you. It was always about you." And then Isabela was gone, rapid boot steps announcing her departure as well as the crack as she slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Hawke had squeezed her hand in the moments of silence that followed. "You, of all people, deserved the truth."

Merrill had opened her eyes and nodded even though she was not quite sure what the truth even was. There had been something about the way the pirate had said "you" that left her feeling perplexed. The word had not been stressed or emphasized, but something subtle, a slight lilt when she had said "It was always about you," that had left Merrill more confused than anything.

She bid Aveline an absent farewell as her brain mulled over the problem again. She supposed she might feel jealous, but she didn't. Hawke loved Merrill; she did not even have a flicker of doubt about the way Hawke felt about her. And she could not fault the pirate for, well, she hadn't said she loved Hawke had she? But even if she had, Merill could not fault her for it. Hawke was good. She was beautiful and witty and good, good to the core of her bones. So good, she would duel a giant Qunari to the death just because she thought it was the right thing to do.

So what did she feel? She followed Hawke up the stairs and sat on the edge of the bed while the rogue stripped off her sweaty tunic and trousers.

Hawke had been even more somber and pensive than usual lately. Not necessarily aloof, but there were stretched moments of silence, when Hawke would lose herself to her thoughts, and when she snapped out of it, she pretended as if nothing were amiss.

Part of it was from her injuries. Merrill had changed the bandages every night until they were no longer needed, and still the rogue had refused to look at the wound. She had watched her struggle as she tried to move her arm for the first time, watched when frustrated tears streamed down her face after her first attempt to spar with Fenris. She was always there whenever Hawke's arm seized and she dropped whatever she had been holding, there to pick up the pieces.

There was improvement of course, and now there was hardly a difference between the old Hawke and the new, healed Hawke that Merrill could tell. She still moved with frightening ferocity and strength and terrifying precision, but the rogue still felt a difference, and it bothered her.

But there were other things. The Knight Commander, the intimidating blond Templar, had declared Hawke the Champion of Kirkwall. A title that bothered the rogue almost as much as she detested the fame and constant bother that accompanied it. Everyone wanted to see her, to talk to her, to bother her with flowers or well-wishes or poorly composed ballads professing love.

"Now I know why the Viscount never granted an audience with anyone," Hawke had mumbled once as they were mobbed by a group of commoners in Lowtown market.

Then there was the Knight Commander herself, and the elf Mage, Orsino. There were politics that Merrill did not quite understand, but the Knight Commander refused to accept any candidate as successor to the Viscount, and that worried both Hawke and Orsino. There were new laws, new restrictions, and Bethany's letters spoke of unrest among the Circle as the Templars tightened their grip on the Mages.

And Isabela had disappeared, and Hawke felt responsible. She knew what the pirate meant to Merrill, how close they were. And Merrill did miss her, terribly. Nothing felt right without the pirate close by, without her laughter or dirty stories. It was as if Hawke felt that she had taken Isabela away from Merrill, which was absurd. But whenever the topic of Isabela arose, Hawke's eyes saddened and she became apologetic.

There was so much. No wonder Hawke was upset, though she might not admit as much. Merrill watched Hawke's tight expression, the one she wore whenever her shoulder ached, as she pulled on a fresh tunic. When she was upset about Pol, Hawke had attempted to console her, even defended her from Fenris. Hawke always made her feel as if nothing else in the world matter, as if nothing could ever harm her.

There had to be some way to make the rogue feel better. Isabela would know what to do; she always knew what to do. Merrill swallowed the lump of sadness in her throat. Isabela would come back. She had before, and she would again. She had to. Without Isabela, she felt as if she were a drift, like a ship that had lost its anchor.

It was as if as though the pirate helped steady both her and Hawke, and without her, both were lost, mired in uncertainty, directionless, unsure of how to move forward.

Merrill fidgeted as she waited for Hawke to finish changing. What did Isabela always say? "Just get naked" wasn't a problem for the lovers. That was one aspect of their relationship that remained unaffected by the past half year's turmoil, at least once Hawke had healed enough that it wasn't painful. "Say how you feel," seemed like better advice.

So when Hawke turned towards her, she met her lover's eyes and blurted. "I need your help!"

* * *

><p>"I need your help!" Merrill said abruptly causing Hawke to falter with the laces of her tunic.<p>

"Anything, lethallan." She replied quietly and sat next to her on the edge of the bed, placed her hand on her knee. "You know that."

"If you're feeling up to it that is." The elf winced at the implication. "I don't mean to suggest you're not up to it. You seem up to it. I just don't want you to feel like you have to if you're hurting. Not that you are hurting, but…" She scratched her head, trying to recover from her own babbling. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to."

Hawke smiled and gently wrapped her arm around Merrill's shoulders, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. "I feel up to it. Whatever it is."

"Oh! Good! There is… an herb I need. Up on Sundermount. It shouldn't be hard to find, but I was reading about it in one of the books I found in your library. You have such wonderful books, by the way. And I wanted to see if I could find it. I'm sure I've seen it on the mountain before. Could we look for it tomorrow?"

"Of course. I'm sure Varric would be happy to come along." Mentally, she ticked through her companions. Aveline would likely be busy tomorrow and an herb hunt did not seem a fitting use of the guard captain's time. Fenris would just grumble the whole time, and Isabella… "And Anders is always looking for new herbs to—"

Merrill squirmed in her arms. "No!" She blushed and ducked her head. "I mean… can it be just us? It shouldn't be dangerous. No one ever goes to the side of the mountain we'll be on. Only the hunters of the clan, really."

Hawke blinked, then nodded, feeling herself flush.

She had been preoccupied lately but had not felt she had been neglecting Merrill. But if the elf felt she had to specifically ask for it just to be the two of them, maybe she did feel neglected. Things just hadn't been… normal since the duel, for either of them.

She felt like a stranger in her own body. She had always been extremely physical as a youngster, climbing trees, running, sparring and wrestling with Carver. Fighting had always come natural to her; she had always excelled in any physical activity. Her daggers were an extension of her body, a part of her, flowing with her movement, responding as if though they were made of flesh and bone and muscle. Now though, she felt clumsy, like a gangling toddler just beginning to walk.

It was frustrating beyond measure. Everyone told her she was as good as she ever was, but before it had been so effortless. Now she had to consciously work to make her muscles comply. She tried not to let it show of course; it only worried Merrill when she did.

Merrill… How was she supposed to protect the Dalish Mage when Meredith seemed so intent on filling the power vacuum left by the Viscount? And Anders? And Bethany? How was she supposed to keep them safe when the dominant force in Kirkwall was the Templars? If the Knight Commander had her way, they would all be shackled and chained like the slaves of the Tevinter. Orsino did not help matters by publically bickering with her either.

The Knight Commander was a good person, a strong, determined woman. She and Hawke might differ in personal convictions, but she seemed to care deeply for Kirkwall. She could be reasoned with, surely.

But in the meantime, until the matter could be peacefully resolved and a compromise reached, Merrill was still in danger. Hawke would feel better if Isabela were there to help shield the elf.

Damn Isabela… Unconsciously, Hawke clenched her fists. If only she had not prodded the pirate, insisted that she be honest with her feelings. She, of all people, should have known better. Guilt panged in her gut, like a sore tooth that persistently ached but screamed white-hot agony when prodded. It had been Hawke to drive Isabela away with her stubborn, bull-headed persistence that Isabela acknowledge the truth. She should have left it alone.

Isabela's departure hurt Merrill, more than the elf had given voice to. Merrill adored Isabela in the way that Merrill loved: without reservation, without judgment, unconditionally. The mere notion of romantic love sent the pirate fleeing, did Merrill even understand? It was all so damnably complicated. Just like it had been between Hawke and Merrill at one point. Hawke wasn't even sure she understood it herself, most of the time.

Damn that selfish pirate! How could she leave them now, now when they both seemed to need her most?

"I love you, you know that right?" Hawke said suddenly, feeling a sudden, urgent need to profess her feelings, to assure Merrill that she was loved, cared for.

Merrill cocked her head to the side, simultaneously startled and confused. Gently, the elf pushed her back onto the bed and climbed on top of her, straddling her hips and planting both hands on her chest before leaning down to kiss Hawke's cheek. "Of course, lethallan. And I love you. We should never doubt that, should we?"

"No," Hawke smiled and pulled Merrill in by the front of her tunic for another kiss. "No, we shouldn't. I just needed to say it. Now… about this herb of yours…"

"It can wait until tomorrow, lethallan." Merrill smiled playfully and covered Hawke's mouth with her own.

* * *

><p>The path that her Dalish lover led her on was uncharacteristically sunny and bright for Sundermount. The forest seemed more inviting here, the trees alive with the chatter of squirrels and birds, the sun bright and lively overhead instead of the dense, foreboding gloom found at higher elevations along the south face of the mountain. They didn't speak much, but climbed, hand in hand until the elevation gently sloped evenly in front of them and the path through the trees gave way into meadow.<p>

High grass undulated in the wind in green blue ways like the sea. Green stalks and blue and purple wildflowers stretched for what seemed an eternity before meeting the line of the forest on the opposite side from where they stopped. A jagged peak climbed into the sky behind the trees as if reaching up to pierce the clouds.

Hawke leaned her head back to the sky, letting the warmth of the summer sun smile down on her skin. It felt marvelous to be out of the city, away from the clotted stink and clamor of so many people in such a small area. It was fresh here, like Lothering used to be. Open sky and rolling gusts of wind, whispering meadows of grass and swaying fields of crops. There were no shouts or cheers for the Champion here, only the brutal honesty of the sunshine, of rock and tree and earth.

Merrill turned and cocked her head to the side to gaze up at her. "It's beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. But—" Hawke smiled and leaned down to accommodate her lover as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss her. "where is this herb you're so anxious to get?"

"Things don't feel the same, do they? Not really. You're all better now, mostly, and the city has put itself back together for the most part, but the docks still have that Qunari smell to them, do you notice it? But it feels like everything has changed." Merrill did not ramble often, not when they were alone. It usually meant she was avoiding a particular topic, or talking circles around what she really wanted to say. "It isn't the same. I feel like a piece of us is missing."

Hawke's mouth suddenly felt as if she were gnawing on raw cotton. "Merrill…"

"No!" The elf insisted, taking both the rogue's hands in her own. "I need you to hear me, Marion, please?"

Stiffening at the use of her name, Hawke slowly nodded and closed her mouth.

"Isabela left us, but it isn't your fault. You did everything you could, but she made the decision to leave. And now… nothing feels right." Merrill nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully and raised her wide green eyes to Hawke's. "And you're still hurt, but you're getting better. I need you to know that it isn't your fault, and eventually you'll heal all the way, and maybe Isabela will come back and everything will be alright. It'll all be alright because we'll do it together." She pressed the rogue's hand to her chest, over her heart.

Her chest tightened with emotion, the rawness of it thick in her throat, and she whispered so as not to let it sound her voice. "I feel like I've let you down. I killed the Arishok, but Isabela is still gone. The Viscount is still dead, and I feel like we are hurtling towards the edge of… oblivion and nothing I do will be able to stop us." Kirkwall had become a keg of trapped steam, the pressure building and building in between Meredith and Orsino, between Mage and Templar. She felt as though she were standing on the precipice of a mountain and could see for miles and miles into the distance in all directions, she could see everything around her, but she could not see the mountain beneath her.

"Hawke…" Merrill touched a hand to her cheek. "We will be alright, I promise. Come on."

Reluctantly, Hawke nodded, unconvinced. "Where—"

"This way!" Merrill darted off across the meadow at a dead sprint, moving faster and more agilely than Hawke had ever seen her move before.

"What?" Hawke shouted, confused. Was this what she meant by frolicking in the woods? Elves frolicked, even Merrill acknowledged that, yes, but this seemed to be a marathon sprint. When the elf did not slow or reply, she was forced to sprint after her.

Legs pumping, she dashed through the high grass, ignoring as it whipped her arms and legs and face, heedless of where each foot fell. Obstacles were hard to see until she was right on them, and she was forced into several last minute turns and leaps around stumps and rocks. She was forced to glimpse up between what was immediately in front of her and where her lover was. Merrill was hard to spot, the grass almost as tall as she was, but every so often, Hawke caught a glimpse of dark brown hair and shifted her direction accordingly.

While she had accustomed herself to the sometimes odd behavior of her lover, this was utterly uncharacteristic, and Hawke felt a surge of irritation. Running through the meadow for no apparent reason, the midafternoon's sun high overhead and the wind whistling in her ears… How long had it been since she ran? Since she really ran until her lungs burned and her muscles shrieked in protests? Since before the duel, surely.

Suddenly, the irritation gave way to whoop of exultation. She was running. She became acutely aware of every blade of grass that whipped past her, every subtle shift in elevation between each foot fall, the thudding rush of blood in her ears. She was running and pushed herself to go faster, as fast as she could until she could no longer feel her lungs aching for air, no longer did her muscles protest. It all fell away as she chased Merrill.

The meadow melted into forest, and the run became more of reckless obstacle course. Her wild dash was interrupted by weaving in and out of trees and ducking under half-fallen ones. She noted, with pride more than envy, that Merrill had no trouble staying several strides ahead of her. She moved like a squirrel, never slowing for obstacles, instead using them to propel her forward. Gone was the awkward elf in the city, who lost her way going from her doorstep to vhenadal. She was a child of the Dales, of the forest and ran and frolicked and leapt with none of the uncertainty she showed in the city.

The forest began to thin as Hawke followed her uphill. It was so steep that she could not see what lay over the crest of the hill, but Merrill, still ahead of her gave a magnificent leap and disappeared on the other side. If her momentum had not been slowed somewhat by the climb, she would have tumbled over what turned out not to be the crest of a hill, but the edge of a cliff. She skidded to a halt and waved her hands frantically to maintain her balance as she peered over the edge. Her heart thudded dangerously close to panic until she saw Merrill pop to the surface of the jade green pool at the base of the cliff.

It took her a moment to realize that the thunder in Hawke's ears was not her pulse, but the thunder of cascading water over a slightly higher rock face to her left into the pool below. It was a natural glen, framed on all sides by sheer cliffs fringed with trees and scrubs, except where the large pool bled into a small stream that seemed to meander to her left, winding lazily out of sight.

"Come on, Hawke!" Merrill shouted, and her voice echoed off the rock walls framing the pool.

Still breathing heavily with exertion, Hawke backed up several paces and for a running start and leapt, arching her body into a perfect dive. She was falling, falling… at least ten man-lengths before she plunged into the water. The ice cold broke over her with such abruptness that she almost gasped. She touched the bottom of the pool that was slick with algae under her fingers. She flipped, and used her legs to propel her towards the surface.

She broke free of the water with a laugh and whipped her head from side to side, slinging water with her hair as she searched for Merrill, who was already swimming towards her.

"You really are crazy, aren't you?" Hawke grinned as Merrill looped her arms around her neck.

"Ma vhenan, that is you." Merrill corrected and returned her grin with one of her own and kissed her, hard, aggressively as if forcing her determination on her lover. "We'll be alright, I promise."

Nodding, Hawke searched herself as she pulled her lover closer. The tension she felt she had carried since she awoke after the duel seemed to have vanished, and she felt… alive. For the first time, everything felt as if it might turn out alright after all, and the feeling of dread was replaced by a feral hope, an intense appreciation of the woman in her arms. "I love you, Merrill. Thank you."

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><p><strong>And scene. I lack any sense of good judgement. I hope you enjoyed. Next chapter: Isabela returns. Something exciting happens... and then profit!<strong>

**And please do not hesitate to leave your feedback. In fact, I will happily admit to it making me happier than a pig in shit to receive reviews. Help me reach my weekly goal of 80 reviews, folks!**

**And as always, thank you for y'all's support and encouragement.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Forgive the delay. I apologize deeply. This is actually the first I've written in a very long time. My father has been sick so my focus has been very much elsewhere. I'm trying to get back to writing to work out some emotion, and if anything sucks, it's my own fault. Again, I apologize.**

**And thank you all for your continued support of this story. Your reviews, feedback and well-wishes always make my day and make me smile, so thank you.**

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><p>Time passed quickly on the open ocean. The only thing that marred the varying shades of delicate blue of the sky and the inky blue of the water was the white of the clouds and occasional cresting wave. It was as if the whole world was empty, drained away, save for the ship and her crew. Occasionally, Isabela would spot another ship, a tiny speck on the horizon, and the illusion was shattered.<p>

But otherwise, it was relatively easy to pretend that they were all alone, that time had no meaning. The sun rose every morning, reflecting off the water like a shiny copper kettle, and every evening the ocean swallowed the sun to give rise to the moon, which waxed and waned with the passage of the weeks. The moon cycles seemed to pass quickly, reminding Isabela that another month was spent only when the full moon hung in the sky like a swollen, pregnant belly.

It was easy to forget how many full moons had passed during the day. The sun was always the same, usually glaring down on their ship as if it resented their passage on the ocean below.

Isabela wiped the sweat from her brow and with the back of her hands. She didn't mind sweating on the open ocean; the wind usually blew steadily, cooling the perspiration quickly on her skin. The wind carried its own cooling spray, and her lips always tasted of salt. Not like in Kirkwall, where a body could sweat standing still, and the buildings and walls blocked any breeze more powerful than a fart. Ostwick wasn't terribly better, and neither was Val Royeaux. Another reason to avoid the cities in favor of the open ocean.

It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment when she stopped feeling at home on solid earth and became a child of the sea. It was long enough ago that she had trouble remembering the first time she stepped on board a ship. True, the sea was a fickle bitch if ever there was one. Storms could blow in faster than a dwarf could spit, and sea battles were equal parts skill, balls, and luck. But at least it was open and free, without the cramped stink of a city. No Mages, no Templars, no politics… You either sailed with all your heart and smarts, or the ocean would claim you, one way or another.

The pirate scowled and raised her spyglass to one eye. Sometimes the sun and ocean played tricks on the eyes, especially at a great distance. Abandoning her post on the quarterdeck, she tucked the spyglass into her belt and made her way to the main mast. As quickly as any of the most seasoned sailors, she scaled the rigging like a squirrel scampering up a tree. She raised the spyglass to her eye again, once she reached the crow's nest.

She focused the lens to where she thought she had detected a shadow on the horizon. Ah. North and just a little west, barely visible was land. Just a grey smudge on the ocean, but sure enough, land. Sighing, Isabela climbed down less enthusiastically than she had bounded up. Even the most well-stocked ship needed to dock occasionally for supplies and fresh water. And this was a respectable vessel, mostly, dealing in trade and honest cargo rather than piracy.

And Isabela wasn't the captain; she'd been first-mate of the _Lady Winter_ since the last one had caught a javelin through the throat when Raiders attacked last year off the coast of Antiva. Poor bastard. The captain was a nice enough Ferelden, as far as honest merchant captains went. And not a bad tumble either, Isabela mused with a quirk of her lips and a pleasurable itch between her legs at the thought.

She rapped on the heavy wooden door of the captain's quarters and waited for the answering voice before entering. She didn't mind not being captain, in fact she almost preferred letting someone else do all the thinking and decision-making. It gave her the opportunity to lose herself in hard manual labor, to abdicate any real responsibility.

It allowed her to be a sailor, rather than a pirate queen, simply Isabela, first-mate of a lumbering trade galleon. It was dreadfully boring and monotonous at times, but it kept the fighting and killing to a minimum, barring Raider attacks. Besides, when they did make port, there were more enough taverns to satisfy her need for the occasional brawl, if she felt like going ashore.

"Captain Hadley."

The Ferelden woman hunched over her desk, chair kicked away and palms planted on either side of a chart, a charcoal pencil clutched between her teeth. She used it to make a small tick mark on the map before acknowledging the pirate. "Isabela." Straightening, she set the pencil down and narrowed her pale blue eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Isabela quickly shook her head and grinned broadly. "Unless you count the nights I've had to sleep alone lately."

Hadley rolled her eyes, well-accustomed to Isabela's manner in the three years the pirate had been part of her crew. "Blame the Maker who made women the way they are," she said, holding her hands, palm up, in front of her in a gesture of helplessness. "Besides, half the crew is willing to throw their legs around you, given the chance."

Isabela smirked and shrugged. It was one of the reasons she… enjoyed the captain's company. Hadley didn't mind who she tumbled around with. No strings, no complications, just a good romp to break up the tedium of the voyage. Her looks didn't hurt either. Hadley was a bit on the short side, but well-muscled with curves in the right places, not quite lean but not stocky either. Long raven brown hair was always hastily restrained with a leather thong, out of a pleasantly pretty face. She was no great beauty, but pretty enough. Besides, any woman strong enough to command a ship held something innately sexy about her, an impression of power that was simply alluring. "None of our crew has the stamina to match what I'm in the mood for, man or woman."

"Did you come here just to complain about your self-imposed celibacy that has lasted an impossibly long four days now?" The captain poured them both a small cup of whiskey from a carved wooden canter and handed one to Isabela, who threw it back with a quick tip of her head.

"No, Captain," Isabela wiped the back of her mouth with her hand. "Spotted land a little west of north. I figure two days till we make port the way this masted kettle tub of a ship sails."

Hadley drank her whiskey slowly, in sips rather than one gulp. She feigned indignation. "The _Lady Winter_ was built for trade, not speed. And I'll not have you disrespect her."

Closing the distance between them, Isabela dragged her finger lazily down the curve of Hadley's jaw, admired the way the other woman pretended it didn't affect her. "You could always flog me for insubordination, Captain," she whispered huskily, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Easily, Hadley batted her hand away and rolled her eyes. "You're worse than the men of this crew. If you can't fuck, you'll want to fight. And I'm in no mood for either."

"Killjoy." Isabela chuckled under her breath and backed away. "I'd settle for a stiff drink."

"You'd never know it. Half the crew would slit their own mother's throat to port more often so they's could waste their coin on whores and cheap whiskey. It takes that same half a crew to drag you off the ship whenever we make berth." There was the slightest shadow of inquisitiveness to the captain's statement, as if hoping Isabela might explain why she was so reluctant to ever leave the ship. But she didn't push when she was rewarded with silence. She never did.

Another reason to like the other woman, Isabela mentally noted. She never pushed and never questioned, never sought to sneak her way passed the pirate's carefully constructed boundaries. Unlike Hawke, who liked to heedlessly plow through them, or Merrill, who in her innocence had no concept of emotional defenses.

The thought was a dangerous one, but Isabela indulged herself in it, for only a moment while Hadley rattled off a list of tasks that needed to be accomplished before they reached Ostwick.

For three years, the Waking Sea and Amaranthine Ocean had been her refuge, a comfortable buffer between her and Kirkwall. It was safer this way, for everyone involved. Hawke could take care of Merrill, and Isabela was far enough away not to be a hazard to either. She on the other hand was safe from losing her head to some silly notion like a besotted adolescent. It was disgusting really and far beneath her dignity as pirate queen.

"Isabela?"

The pirate blinked, realizing that Hadley had stopped speaking and now regarded her with a curious tilt of her head. "Aye, Captain," she responded automatically and whirled abruptly to ensure the crew began preparing for port. Hadley's eyes might not have been as deep a blue as Hawke's, but she still had that manner of a piercing stare that seemed omniscient, as if she could hear Isabela's thoughts. It was a gaze that seemed to _know_ her without a word being spoken. She still felt Hadley's gaze on her back as she shut the cabin door behind her.

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><p>"Your messages are on your desk, messere." Bodahn announced the moment Hawke entered the estate. It was their ritual, unaltered through the passage of years. Hawke would return from the evenings, sometimes blood-spattered and aching from the latest fight with slavers or smugglers or blood mages or corrupt Templars, sometimes simply exhausted from painstaking diplomacy that never seemed to work. Always the same speech from her dwarven manservant, as if he placed her messages somewhere different instead of the same spot every day.<p>

Today, Hawke was simply tired. If she had to listen to one more of Orsino's paranoid tirades, she would leave this forsaken city. Not that she disagreed Meredith was an overbearing bitch, but did the First Enchanter expect her to storm the Gallows? No, she would mediate their disagreements, walking a delicate balance between Mage and Templar, trying to reason with both sides. Sighing, she paused to scratch her mabari behind the ears before continuing to her desk.

"Miss Merrill is out… again." Bodahn continued nervously, fidgeting and wring his hands.

Hawke felt her jaw reflexively clench. _That_ was becoming a ritual part of Bodahn's speech as well. "Again?"

"Something draws her there, messere." The dwarf shrugged helplessly, well aware of the tension between elf and rogue lately. He had overheard an argument, just a few nights previous. He hadn't been listening, not purposefully anyway, but the Champion had been angry with Merrill for staying out so late after dark. With Templars cracking down all over the city, it wasn't safe.

"Maker." Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. She knew exactly what drew Merrill back to her home in the Alienage. Hawke had steadfastly refused for the Eluvian to be moved to the estate, and Merrill refused to abandon her work on it. And lately, whenever Hawke was busy or preoccupied with the cumbersome duties of "champion," she would retreat to her hovel to work on it. An occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent lately. "I know what draws her there."

Hawke slammed the door behind her as she immediately left the estate. That damned mirror. More and more lately, Merrill had been conspicuously absent. At first, Hawke had been willing to write off her disappearances as more fallout from Isabela's disappearance. It had been three years, and the pirate had not returned. It was like the stroke of the blade before it fell, hovering over the couple. They did not speak of it much, neither wanting to bring Isabela up for the sake of the other.

Now it had become clear that the mirror had strengthened its grip around the Dalish elf, drawing her back to the Alienage. It was another thing they rarely spoke of. Blood magic and the Eluvian.

At a light jog, it only took her a quarter of an hour to reach the Alienage, and when she did, she unceremoniously threw open the door to Merrill's hovel. Out of ingrained habit, her gaze swept left and then right and then left again for potential traps or intruders before stepping inside. "Merrill?"

There was a clatter and a softly muttered oath in Elvish that came from the hovel's only other room. Hawke closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing calm and patience; anger would win her nothing.

"Hawke!" Merrill squeaked at her lover's appearance. "What're you doing here? I thought you were out with Aveline on one of her patrols? Is it that late already? Creators! I didn't realize." The elf smoothed her tunic as if she had been sitting and suddenly stood up and kissed her lover on the cheek.

"I wish you wouldn't come here," Hawke said simply.

"This is my home, Hawke. Why shouldn't I come here?" The question was posed innocently, but still carefully guarded. It had become a well-practiced argument.

Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. "The estate is your home now, I… You know what? How about we skip the part where I tell you that I don't like you out alone, especially after dark. And the part where I tell you about the latest crackdown on apostates Meredith has devised. And you can skip the part where you tell me you can take care of yourself."

Merrill tightened her lips into a thin line and shook her head, busying herself by stacking the books and scrolls that lay in clutter all around the room. "You are the one who insists on having this argument, Hawke." She said curtly, refusing to look at the rogue.

"You're the one who insists on coming here all the Maker-forsaken time!"

"I have work to do—"

"You mean that damn mirror." Hawke said evenly, despite the rising hum of exasperation in her ears.

Merrill set a stack of books on the bed and began rolling her scrolls neatly. "It's for my people; I won't stop trying to help them no matter how much you… or they… disapprove." Her answer was even as well. This was just another turn of the same argument.

Hawke flexed her fists restlessly and felt weariness down to her very bones that had nothing to do with the hellish patrol she had walked with Aveline earlier that day. She was tired. "Do I mean so little to you that my opinion means nothing?"

The deviation from the usual script caused the elf to throw her scrolls onto the bed and finally face Hawke. "That isn't fair, and you know it! You don't know what it's like not to have a heritage! To know nothing of your own people! How dare you say I don't care for you or what you think when you obviously don't care how important this is to me!"

"Don't tell me what it is like to lose your heritage, I might not have lost my language but I've paid price enough to satisfy even you, Merrill!" Hawke clenched her fists, and three quick strides brought her to face the fuming elf. "My father and brother taken by the Blight, Bethany by the Templars, and my mother by blood magic. You and Aveline and Varric and the rest are the only family I've left, and you throw yours away for that damned mirror!"

"I've thrown nothing away," Merrill shot back icily. "You always treat me as a child that doesn't know what she's doing! I know what I am doing!"

"So did Quentin."

The rogue easily caught Merrill's wrist in a steel grip before the slap the elf intended could connect with her cheek. Ignoring her struggles to yank her hand back, Hawke ripped away the sleeve covering her forearm for the telling signs of blood magic. There were the white scars, mostly years old, yet there were a few pink and more recent. And one fresh, where the blood had dried to the fabric of the sleeve, ripped off by the rough handling. A steady drip of blood streamed down her arm in a single rivulet.

Merrill held her gaze defiantly, even as the stream dripped down her elbow and splattered on the floor. The lovers stared at each other, blue eyes locked with green, and the rogue felt her anger deflate as if someone had released the all steam from a boiling teapot. Sadness rushed into fill the void anger and frustration had left.

"Haven't we both spilled enough blood?" Hawke whispered.

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><p>Blood.<p>

There was so much blood, too much. The deck of the ship was slick with it, mixing with piss and shit from the dead and dying. Loose bowels were an unfortunate accompaniment of violent death, as if blood and viscera were not enough. Even on the main deck open to the ocean air, the stench was overwhelming, clotting in Isabela's nostrils making it difficult to breathe as well as maintain steady footing on the treacherously slippery surface.

The Raiders of the Waking Sea had struck just before dawn on the third day, while they were moored outside the port of Ostwick. They must have looked like just another ship departing the harbor to the night watch, but they had come alongside the _Lady Winter_ with barely enough time for an alarm to be raised before the Raiders had thrown grappling lines over the railing and made ready to board.

As far as tactics went, it was shoddy at best. Isabela would have never done something so… crude. But then, the Lady was a merchant's ship, built for hauling cargo rather than speed and combat. It had been crude, but chillingly effective. At least the Raiders weren't using flaming tar pots to burn the ship to her keel, which they might have tried if they'd been another Raider ship. No, the _Lady_ was no use to them without her cargo.

But Isabela fully intended to make them pay for every barrel and crate they stole before it was all done. She had already managed to kill two and maim at least three others. Even still, the Raiders outnumbered the Lady's crew three to one, and her people were not fighters or pirates by trade. Most knew at least what end of a sword to hold, but against seasoned cutthroats, they were hardly effective.

Isabela spat the gummy taste from her mouth and used the brief respite to take in the situation while no opponent immediately challenged her. The deck was a crazed frenzy of violence and death. Every time a Raider fell, another swarmed in to take his place while there were no hope for reinforcements for their side. There was no hope for this fight. The best they could hope for would be to live long enough to be ransomed or sold, or perhaps thrown overboard once they were underway again.

Desperately, the pirate scanned the deck for the captain. They had to abandon ship and hope they could swim to shore. Cursing under her breath, she pushed her way through the chaos. Luckily, most of the Raiders ignored her, too engaged in duels with the crew. She stumbled her way from bow to stern, to the quarterdeck, slipping several times along the way, before she found Hadley.

A Raider had left his saber in her chest, obviously too stupid or undisciplined not to realize that the chest was the last place to stab. Too much muscle and bone. Evidently, when he couldn't pull it free, he abandoned it and Hadley to join the fight elsewhere. "Bugger…" Isabela swore under her breath and dropped to her knees beside the captain, tentatively wrapped around the hilt and quickly withdrew it as Hadley cried out. "Why in the bloody hell did you go and get stabbed for?"

The shorter woman was still breathing, but not without labor. She forced a smile as blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. "We all live our full time here, not a minute more." She twitched, or it may have been a shrug.

"We have to abandon the ship; I don't have time for you to be getting all silly philosophical." Isabela snapped and reached to pull the captain's arm over her shoulder.

"No. No! Isabela!" Hadley pulled her arm back. "I'm done. Give the order to abandon ship and save who you can, but I'm not one of them."

"Like hell—" Both Hawke and Hadley had accused her of being a stubborn ass on plenty of occasions, and she wasn't about to leave a friend at the mercy of the Raiders or to simply die alone.

"Andraste's tits!" Hadley grabbed the front of Isabela's bodice and gave it a yank that would have been savage if she were not dying. "Get out of here." Even weakened by the loss of blood and a mortal wound, the merchant captain was vehement, savage with authority. "I'm already dead. Help who you can, but run towards something for once, instead of away from everything. Please."

Isabela bit down on her lower lip until she tasted the copper tang of blood and reluctantly nodded. She gently reached up and brushed the bangs from Hadley's brow, and the other woman smiled weakly. "At least I won't live to see the _Lady_ in Raider hands."

The captain's body shuddered once, and she was still.

Giving Hadley's shoulder one final squeeze, she leapt to her feet. "Abandon ship!" She shouted, her voice pitched to carry over the roar of battle and storm equally. It was the ship's captain's bellow, a voice she had not used in years upon years. "Abandon ship!" She called as she ran until members of the crew took it up and echoed it. "Just a few seconds…" She muttered under her breath as ducked below deck. There was almost no fighting in the still dark corridors below.

She blinked several times against the blackness until her eyes adjusted to the dim light shed by enclosed glass lantern hung from hooks along the wall. She sprinted the length of the ship, smashing lanterns as she went. People who did not sail did not rightly understand what a danger fire was aboard a ship. A small flame once caught could quickly spread on a ship built of wood and sealed with tar and pitch. Coils of rope and canvas for sails only added fuel. It took only moments to start a decent blaze, and the corridor was choked in thick black smoke before Isabela reached the end to crawl topside.

A cloud of smoke followed her as she threw open the hatch and made it to fresh air, which she gulped as greedily as she could without pausing. Raiders immediately spotted her and the smoke, and no longer occupied by the crew, dashed towards her.

One desperate, artful leap put her over the ship's railing, and the plunge into the ocean was both cool and shocking. Without wasting a precious moment to glance over her shoulder, she swam, praying to whatever god or goddess that would listen that the Raiders would be too preoccupied with the fires to follow her.

When she was certain she had reached a safe distance, she paused to tread water and catch her breath. Other crew members had made it into the water as well and were making for the closest stretch of shoreline. Great clouds of billowing black smoke licked by orange flames rolled off the water, and Isabela grinned to herself, satisfied with her work yet still feeling empty, as if she had reached her destination but forgotten something along the way.

"Looks like the _Lady_ won't fall in to Raider hands after all."

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><p><strong>Feedback is appreciated, but more appreciated is y'alls support. I've been amazed at how many people enjoy this story, and I'm honored that I can entertain y'all.<strong>

**Again, I apologize for the delay in updates, and I will try my best to make them more frequent, but as I said... things have been all manner of crazy lately.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Well, I was on a bit of a roll... so hurray next chapter! Am I right, ladies? Gentlemen? I don't know if the past two chapters have been any good, but I've certainly enjoyed writing them. You know how I am... break up with one chapter and move onto the next. I suppose I'm not much better than Isabela...**

**Aside, the long-awaited homecoming...**

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><p>Varric spent a considerable effort staying out of other people's business.<p>

He would eavesdrop on their business, tell an audience about other's business, gossip about people's business, but getting neck deep in the messy affairs of others? Never. He would just find a way to hear about it after the fact.

He was a background sort of guy; Bartrand was the one who excelled in meddling, always quicker to pull a blade than use his wits. Fighting, or worse brawling, was something Varric engaged in only when necessary, which was wise for a surface dwarf when every damn human and elf was near twice his height. He preferred to talk through situations.

And pick sides? Ancestors as his witness, that was the surest way to end up on the pointy end of steel. Opinions were like testicles; kick them hard enough it didn't matter how many you had. Mages or Templars, Qunari or Chantry, there were too many sides in Kirkwall. He hadn't survived his dealings with the Dwarven Merchant's Guild by picking sides and involving himself in conflict. A smart man played both sides of any conflict or avoided them altogether, and Varric was a smart man.

But no matter of shrewd or cunning could be played the day one pirate queen showed back up at The Hanged Man. Elbows planted on the bar, admirable posterior slightly jutting out, drink in hand, in the same exact spot as if she had never left, as if three years had never passed. Even the way she reacted when she spotted him, asked if they were on for a few hands of Wicked Grace and drinks that evening. Same old Isabela.

Varric had played along of course, mentioned nothing about her lengthy absence or the fallout she had left in her wake. He knew better than that.

But now he was stuck in the impossible position of between a rock and a hard place, and he was a surface dwarf without the affinity for stone his Ancestors had.

A person would have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to notice the hurt in Merrill's eyes whenever Isabela was mentioned or the way Hawke always managed to excuse herself whenever he began to regale the patrons of The Hanged Man with the glorious tale of the Champion's duel with the Arishok, which was still a crowd-pleaser after all these years. The best part of the story was that he added very little embellishment. Andraste's tits, what did Hawke expect? She practically handed him the best story of his life. Nothing was more romantic than a duel, and people lapped it up with a spoon and asked for seconds.

But Hawke and Daisy were his friends, sod it all. If either of them was to walk in and spot Isabela, casual as anyone might please, it would be like a solid punch to the gut by a golem. If it had been anyone else, he would have sat back and let events unfold as they did. But he couldn't do that to Hawke… not after all she had done for him and Bartrand, not after what had happened in the Deep Roads. He owed her more than that.

So, despite his usual dedication to neutrality, he went straight to the estate. Bodahn let him in, as per usual, and started telling him that indeed Mistress Hawke was home. She had returned after yet another tense affair between the Knight Commander and First Enchanter, she'd run herself ragged if she didn't slow down from time to time. If Varric would be kind enough to wait in the main room, he would fetch her straightaway.

Varric snorted as the other dwarf hurried up the stairs. He was a strange little man, especially for a dwarf. Always worrying, always fretting and fussing, as if he were a hen clucking after her chicks. It was odd for a dwarven man, or even a dwarven women, who were as stout and hardy as the stone they revered. Anxiety was for humans and elves; dwarves just drank their fears away. Not Bodahn. If his own mother (if he had one) were to keel over, he'd think it less important than a case of indigestion of Hawke's.

The dwarven manservant bustled down the stairs several moments later, with Hawke following. "Varric, here to invite my mabari to another game of diamondback?" She asked lightly though her face held no trace of humor. That wasn't unusual, but the lack of luster in her eyes that normally betrayed her stoicism was.

"Is Daisy around?" He asked, hoping the question sounded more casual than it probably did.

Hawke tensed, visibly. "No. Why? What's happened?" Her hand reflexively went to her hip, where he knew she kept a hidden blade.

"No!" He said quickly, mentally kicking himself. He knew how much Hawke worried these days, about the Templars, about the blood magic. "No! I'm sure she's fine; I just have… information that concerns you both."

With visible effort, the rogue relaxed and gave Bodahn a brief nod of dismissal. Whatever she might have said to the contrary, Hawke did have that regal air of nobility about her. She gestured to the two chairs pulled in front of the fireplace, and they both took a seat. They were chairs obviously suited to a human's height, but Varric managed well enough. "Oh, well… she is most likely at the Alienage."

"How is _that_ going?" Daisy had told him about their last argument; Hawke's disapproval of blood magic was no secret, nor was Merrill's use of it. Most of the time, Hawke turned a blind eye to her lover's use of the dangerous magic, and the elf pretended as though it wasn't a big deal. Until lately, when Hawke had become increasingly insistent that Merrill cease her efforts with the mirror.

Hawke shrugged and sighed. "I won't say I've given up, but I have decided that my tactics were ineffective at best. For now, I let her be, and she doesn't speak of it. We agreed if she is at the Alienage after dark, she'll wait for me to escort her home. A compromise." Her lips settled into a thin, humorless smile. "She is determined that she is helping her people, and I am terrified she is sowing the seeds of her own destruction. What else is new in Kirkwall?"

Varric grunted, then chuckled. "She'll be fine, Hawke. Can you imagine our little Daisy crazed with blood magic? It's like Fenris smiling."

"You were the one who warned me when we became lovers, remember? That she was messing in dangerous things?"

It was his turn to shrug; he did remember. "It was a moment of weakness."

The rogue narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You didn't come here to play the role of relationship counselor, Varric. That's not like you. What "information" do you have that concerns us?"

More than a little uncomfortably, he shifted in the chair and wished for all that he was worth, that his feet reached the ground instead of dangling over the edge. Ancestors! What was he doing here? In all honesty, he was grateful that Daisy wasn't there. Hawke he could predict as sure as one could predict the tides. He expected she would react the same way she did to everything: a curt nod and a façade of emotionless acceptance. There was no telling how the elf would react. Not to this news, anyway. But it still didn't make it any easier.

"Rivaini's back."

The rogue sucked in a sharp breath, as if she'd been submerged under water too long before resurfacing. Then, the momentary loss of control ended, and she nodded. "Balls…" She muttered as she exhaled.

"I wanted to tell you… before you saw her." He continued, feeling stupendously awkward.

Silence ticked by, and neither of them spoke. Finally, Hawke pushed out of her chair, standing, and he followed suit. "Thank you, Varric. I appreciate you telling me."

"Well… I didn't want you bowled over like you'd just been hit by a Qunari," He teased, grinning as the pair walked to the front door of the estate.

"Very funny."

"Are you going to tell Daisy?"

"Maker's balls, no!" Hawke, surprisingly, followed him out and shut the door behind them. "And don't you tell her either. Isabela will tell her herself. After I have a talk with her."

"Now?" Varric asked, a little embarrassed by the squeak in his voice.

"Why not?" Hawke straightened the tunic she wore under her armor and started determinedly towards Lowtown.

"At least give me a head start, Champion. My legs aren't as long as yours, and Rivaini will skewer me if she knows I'm the one that told you."

* * *

><p>There she was. The pirate queen looking none the worse for wear than she had three years ago. Perhaps a little more tan, as if she had spent more time in the sun than indoors, but otherwise, the same Isabela. She still wore no pants, just a long sleeveless tunic with a slit ending just below where the imagination could begin and a black bodice cinched around her midsection. And the red strip on linen that had been ripped from the tunic Hawke wore the day of the Arishok duel tied around her upper arm.<p>

Hawke paused at the door of the tavern and waited, knowing Isabela had likely already spotted her out of the edge of her peripheral vision. She didn't even turn her head when Hawke approached, just tipped her tankard back for another sip. "You don't have to check up on me." Isabela said sharply, gesturing for her tankard to be refilled.

"I'm just here for the rat-shit flavored whiskey," Hawke replied, crossing her arms over her chest. Seeing her again was as still a shock, despite the fact she had been warned. She inhaled deeply several times, trying to make her mind accept the reality of what her eyes were seeing.

"Right," Isabela rolled her eyes and sighed. She still refused to look at Hawke, or even turn away from the bar. Typically Isabela, avoid whatever made her uncomfortable. What wasn't typical was that she was visibly displaying awkward uncertainty. "Do you remember what you said after the mess with the Qunari?"

Three years might have passed, but there wasn't a day that went by that Hawke did not think of that night. The night she finally regained consciousness, her entire body aching, with Isabela watching her on one side and Merrill pretending to be asleep on the other. The sickening realization that she couldn't move her arm, the fear that spread over her as if she were slowly being dipped into a vat of freezing water.

It wasn't a pleasant memory, but Hawke remembered. She still had nightmares about it from time to time, only in her dreams, she never recovered, never regained strength in her arm, and simply wasted away while calling for water and no one ever came.

"I was, and am, proud of you for doing the right thing." Hawke would rather not revisit the exact details of the conversation that followed. Inwardly, she scoffed. Who was being avoidant now?

"It may have been the right thing, but it was also the dumb thing," Isabela replied disdainfully. "The relic was mine. I should have kept running." Finally, the pirate turned her head and looked at her, as if challenging the other woman to contradict her.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

"Bullshit! You could have stormed the keep and slaughtered all those Qunari if you had to." She pushed away from the bar. "You and Aveline. I mean, look at her… she's a woman-shaped battering ram." The brief moment of levity was supplanted by icy accusation as she approached Hawke, and the rogue's breath hitched. "The fact is… you and I have nothing in common anymore."

Regaining her composure wasn't easy, and Hawke momentarily dropped her gaze to the floor. Three years, and part of her wanted to shake the pirate senseless while the other part of her wanted to deck her flat out and yet another wanted to pull her into a crushing embrace. None of which was appropriate given the situation. The physical wounds of the duel had healed over three years, but the emotional wound was still raw, still painful. It was difficult to meet Isabela's eyes, those exotic amber eyes.

Calmly, she captured those eyes with her own and held them. "That isn't true." A thought passed between them, unspoken yet understood, and they were silent.

"You're the Champion," Isabela continued, barely above a whisper. "And I'm just lying, thieving snake." The words were more than bitter, tinged with shame. Perhaps more had happened in three years than Hawke initially believed. If there was an emotion altogether unlike Isabela, it was shame. Isabela was utterly remorseless about what she did and who she was, despite Aveline's best efforts to make her feel otherwise.

"You're just afraid to be anything else." Whatever anger Hawke felt about the pirate's disappearance had long since dissipated. After the first year, she found she was simply hurt. Hurt that the pirate would abandon her, abandon them. For a while, she thought maybe the she had been right after all, that feelings were something that the pirate was incapable of doing. But gradually, the realization that it was because of feelings that Isabela had left in the first place. But the epiphany did nothing to assuage the loss and grief caused by her absence. But she could no longer be angry. The only thing that gnawed on her was disappointment, hurt.

Once again, the pirate stood before her, shaking her head in that characteristically Isabela manner. "I don't know how to be anything else."

"Would you be here if you didn't?" Hawke could not help but point out. She had already been away three years. It would have been easy to stay away a few more, until the memory of Kirkwall faded, until she and Merrill were no more than hazy figures in her memory, lost to time. Perhaps she would regret leaving, perhaps she wouldn't. But she had chosen to return.

"Balls, Hawke," Isabela frowned and shook off the rogue's accusation. "You haven't changed. Look…" The pirate relented and smiled faintly. "I'm here if you need me." She extended a hand, a token offering.

Without hesitating, Hawke took it and squeezed it gently in her own. "I'm glad you're back, Isabela."

"Phew!" Isabela grinned and returned to the bar, gulping the rest of her drink down in two long swigs. "Glad that's over with. I have expected you to punch me flat the moment you saw me." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

It was Hawke's turn to grin, mirthlessly. "Merrill doesn't know you're back yet. She's at the Alienage; you can escort her back to the estate tonight."

* * *

><p>"Shit." Isabela stared at the door to the hovel. It hadn't changed much. The door wasn't fit to keep out the rats, let alone anything else. Merrill might as well just have a curtain separating her hovel from the rest of the Alienage. At least a curtain would be prettier. On second thought, she glimpsed around at her surroundings, to the skulking elves. It was harder to steal a door than a curtain. Steeling herself, she knocked and pushed the door open.<p>

"Creators! I thought you'd never…" Merrill quickly stood from her tiny, ramshackle little table and froze, clearly expecting Hawke.

Isabela let the door bang shut behind her, forced a smile. Her stomach was practically curling in on itself. As if she were a virgin presented with her first whore, it was pathetic. "Hello, Kitten."

The silence seemed to stretch on as vast and endless as the ocean, and only the pirate's swift reflexes saved her.

_Thwack!_ The carved wooden halla Merrill snatched from the mantle slammed into the door where Isabela's face had been a mere moment before. The pirate ducked again as Merrill picked up a book from the table and sent it sailing across the room. "You." Merrill squeaked as her hand searching for the closest solid object it could find to continue her assault. "You!" Another book flew. "Pirate!" The elf finished as if that was the most insulting curse she could think of.

It was how she had expected Hawke to react. Maybe not the throwing of things, but with anger. Or maybe, Isabela had only wanted Hawke to be angry since that was easier to deal with. Fights, yelling… she could cope with that, at least from Hawke. It was the burning disappointment in the rogue's eyes that caused her mouth to go dry, for her chest to burn.

"Merrill—" Isabela began, but was abruptly cut off by yet another object lobbed at her head. She knew Merrill would be upset but… perhaps she had been worried about the wrong companion's reaction. "Kitten…"

"Don't you "Kitten" me, Isabela!" The elf paused, a small clay cup clutched in her hand as she jabbed a finger at her viciously. "You left us! You disappeared for _three years!_" The cup shattered against the wall. "You left us when we needed you most!"

Isabela dashed across the room before the elf could shatter any more of the sparse decorations or furnishings of the hovel, hoping to calm Merrill to a reasonable state. Whoever thought that she would be the one beseeching calm, rational discussion rather than violence? The Maker certainly did have a perverted sense of humor. "Look, there is a perfectly good reason…"

Merrill cut her off abruptly with a vicious stamp of her foot. "There is not!" Isabela yelped involuntarily and clutched at her booted foot. For a mage in her bare feet, the elf still managed to pack a fair wallop, and Isabela was forced to limp after her as she retreated into the bedroom. "Hawke was hurt, she couldn't even stand! She couldn't lift a dagger for weeks! The whole city has been ripping itself apart since the Qunari left! And all the time Hawke and I were waiting, wondering where you had gone to, if we'd ever see you again, if we would have to do this all on our own." The elf swung clumsily and hit the pirate on the upper arm. Luckily, she was a mage and not a fighter.

"I—"

"Of course you wouldn't know that because you've been gone for three years, and suddenly you pop in and say "hello, kitten" and expect everything to be just like it was!" Merrill had never been this angry in all the time the pirate had known her. Where was the sweet, innocent little elf who was confused by the most common idioms and expressions? Where was the young girl who beamed up at her with green, admiring eyes? Replaced by an angry woman who had every right to be angry with her. She still babbled, but now her words rambled together with ire, as if she were rushed to say everything at once. "How can we trust you won't leave tomorrow? Or in a week? Or that you won't stay gone next time?"

"Would you just let me say something in my defense?" Isabela interjected plaintively. There had to be some way to make this right. She knew there would be… difficulties in her return to Kirkwall. And however unexpected this was, she wouldn't give up now. Besides, she didn't think she could live with herself if the best person she had ever known couldn't forgive her.

Her heart felt as if it were gripped by an ogre. Damn Hawke to the Void. She knew… she suspected this, which is precisely why she sent the pirate into the lion's den. Her chest was tight with uncomfortable emotion, and every thought in her mind screamed at her to run, to run away from the confrontation, to flee the unpleasant ache in her throat and the sting behind her eyes.

What did they want from her? She was sorry, wasn't that clear enough? She had returned to Kirkwall, and was trying, damn them. They couldn't expect more from her, could they?

"Oh, yes!" Merrill rolled her eyes sarcastically and placed her hands on her hips, glaring venomously at the pirate. "Your perfectly good reason for abandoning the people who loved you, let's hear it. I—"

When it became clear that the elf had no intention of letting her speak, Isabela shouted over her. "I had to leave so you could be happy with Hawke without me mucking it up!" The shout drowned in Merrill's throat, and she visibly seemed to shrink as she fell silent. "I…" She began again, taking advantage of the break in tirade. "I had to give the two of you a chance; all I ever do is hurt people. I couldn't do that to you. You deserve better, both of you. And…" Isabela squeezed her eyes shut and uttered words that tasted utterly foreign on her tongue. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes snapped open as yet another clumsy smack landed on her upper arm. Merrill gazed up with her with solemn, leaf-green eyes. Tears stained her cheeks, which only made the pirate more uncomfortable. She rubbed the sting out of her arm. "What was that for?"

"For being gone so long!" Merrill sniffled and her voice broke. Unceremoniously, she threw her arms around the pirate's neck and buried her face in her shoulder.

Isabela hesitated. The sudden shift in mood caught her off-guard, and she wondered if people were always so abrupt in their emotions, or if she was just now noticing. Tentatively, she folded her arms around the smaller woman and held her close, and it no longer mattered. Resting her cheek on the crown of the elf's head, she whispered tender reassurances and somber promises until the tears dampening her neck had dried.

* * *

><p><strong>I am trying to respond to reviews in a timely manner, but fact is, I've sucked at it lately. So, if I haven't replied to you, I deeply apologize. From now on, I will make a concerted effort to respond to every review if possible. <strong>

**Thank each and every one of you so much. Your feedback and reviews have made this story a pleasure to write and have brightened my days, especially during a time which has otherwise blown darkspawn dick. Thank you.**


	13. Chapter 13

**A short-ish chapter. **

**My father passed away a few weeks ago, and I appreciate all the love and support I have received lately. I wanted this chapter to be at least a somewhat happy one, and haven't been exactly in the mindset for it. But I wrote this to perhaps give our girls a break from some of the mounting tension. And to not be such a crappy author about updating.**

**I adore all of you and thank all of you for your support and patience. And as always, I apologize if this is shit.**

* * *

><p>Night in Lowtown was never truly quiet. As Isabela often lamented when Hawke had left the pathetic hut in Lowtown in favor of an estate with no rats in it, there was always the sound of a whore plying his or her trade in some back alley. Or drunken revelers making their way home from The Hanged Man or brawling outside of it. Occasionally, there was the too quiet scuffle of bandits striking from the shadows, or the baying of a feral dog.<p>

Seeing as how every alley was occupied with either whores or bandits, Hawke had chosen to meet in the open, where she could be just another Lowtown commoner. The letter she had received had been brief, cryptic with a code only she could understand: around the corner from Gamlen's home, and a specified time for meeting, was all it had read. It was clear who it had been from, and the timing was perfect. Even if anyone spotted and recognized her as the Champion of Kirkwall, it was commonplace for her to be traipsing the streets at this hour, usually fetching Merrill from her hovel.

No one had recognized her yet, though. Which was a good thing. But then, she had taken lessons from the pirate queen on how to blend in, how to remain hidden in plain view. Her heart quickened as she rounded the corner and spotted the other woman, casually leaning against the building across the road from Gamlen's house, but she steadied her breathing, willing herself to calm.

She sauntered casually over, one thumb hooked into her belt. "How much?" She said loud enough for anyone close by to overhear, and leaned in much closer than propriety dictated. The corners of her mouth turned in a grin that wasn't just for show as the woman grabbed her by the front of her armor and pulled her close, close enough to smell the scent of dried flowers in her hair.

"For fifty silver, a quick one, and you get to keep your boots on." The proposition sounded genuine, but odd coming from the shorter woman, but Hawke gave a curt nod of assent and allowed herself to be led by the hand into the nearest (unoccupied) alley.

Once adequately shielded by the shadows, Hawke abruptly took her by the shoulders and pinned her against the wall with her body, pressed her cheek against hers and whispered. "Keep my boots on? Where did you hear that one?"

The smaller woman struggled underneath her uncomfortably, wiggling as if she could back away, but between Hawke's solid frame and the brick and mortar of the building against her back, there was nowhere to retreat. "Where do you think? Isabela! For the Maker's sake, Hawke!"

"We have to be convincing!"

"I'm your sister, by the Void!" Bethany hissed in her ear.

Hawke would readily admit to anyone that asked, that she always took particular pleasure in ribbing her younger sister. But unlike Carver, her motives were borne of sisterly amusement rather than surly irritation. All the same, she relaxed her firm grip on her younger sister, allowed her a scant bit of room to move and breathe. "Don't tell me you're still a virgin, Bethy."

Crimson scalded the mage's cheeks, visible even in the shadows. One of the disadvantages of being so fair, as all the Hawke children were, was that every blush was painfully obvious. Hawke was eternally grateful for having trained herself to control such a reaction before meeting Isabela or Varric, or else she'd walk around as bright as a boiled crab.

"No," Bethany hissed quietly, and Hawke immediately realized she had probed and discovered a very raw nerve. "I didn't risk meeting you to discuss my private life."

Hawke sobered and pulled her younger sister closer. To any outside observer, she hoped they just appeared to be a whore and client consummating a business transaction. "I'm sorry, Beth. What's wrong? And how did you manage to sneak out of the Gallows?"

"Don't worry about me, Sister." Beth said softly and ran her fingers through Hawke's hair. "It's you—and Kirkwall—that I worry about."

Hawke grinned into her sister's cheek. "Now? After years in Kirkwall, you're just now starting to worry?"

"I feel as though we're nearing a problem that even _you_ cannot solve, Sister." Bethany said quickly. "Arguments that you can't mediate. I fear that we're hurtling towards the edge of a great cliff and there is nothing you can do to slow our momentum." The desperation in the words harshened them to a whisper, and Hawke was abruptly jerked years into the past.

Bethany had not been with her on their trek up to Sundermount with the amulet. The old woman's bargain had been with Hawke, and she could not bear to expose her sister to any betrayal or danger that the powerful witch might work, not so soon after losing Carver. It seemed like a simple amulet, a simple task. But a task given them to a woman who could shift into the shape of a dragon and breathe fire to scorch a whole horde of darkspawn.

But there had been no betrayal. But Bethany could not know the words the witch had spoken to her, yet her words bore the echo of that old woman all these years later.

"_Destiny awaits us both, dear girl. We stand upon the precipice of change; the world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap."_

Hawke had hardly thought of that trip up the mountain, only in the context of her first meeting of her elven lover. Flemeth had been an interesting side note to that journey. But now her words came rushing up in a startling gasp. Had Flemeth known what Hawke would face? Had she foreseen the conflict in Kirkwall, the tyranny of the Templars, the rebellion of the Mages?

No, she could not possibly have. Her words could just have easily be applied to the Qunari uprising. She remembered what she had told the old witch. "Destiny is for those who wish to abdicate responsibility for their actions." The old woman was just speaking in riddles and cryptic phrases. Phrases that could be deciphered and applied to almost any situation.

Hawke shook her head and pulled away from her sister just enough to look into her eyes. "I know things are tense in Kirkwall right now, but it'll be okay, I promise."

"Meredith—the Knight Commander—doesn't trust you, Sister. She grows increasingly paranoid with every passing day; she is certain of your allegiance with the Mages, your own sister is one and you share your bed with another." Bethany framed Hawke's face with her hand. "And she's given you this insane task of hunting down supposed blood mages as a test. She thinks you want to be Viscount, that you'd resort to any means necessary to attain it."

"That's insane! I am not siding with the Mages. Or the Templars. I'm deliberately avoiding siding with anyone! And the last thing I want to do is be Viscount. That would make Kirkwall officially my problem!"

"It doesn't matter, that's what I'm trying to tell you, Marion! She is certain you are a threat, and she wants you eliminated. I fear it is inevitable that even your status as Champion will not be enough to protect you from her."

The steady clank of armor alerted them both to the fact they had forgotten they were supposed to be an inconspicuous couple, and it was Bethany, rather than Hawke, who grabbed her close and cried out in feigned passion to keep their cover. "Maker, forgive me…" Bethany breathed as the patrol passed the opening of their alley without so much as a glance. Her voice was constricted, but not with shame at simulating sex with her sister, but with something else that puzzled Hawke. "Just promise me, when the time comes, you will not trust Meredith."

The rogue narrowed her eyes at her sister. "How do you know this, Bethany?"

Bethany ducked her head, loose chocolate curls falling forward to obscure her face. . "You are my sister, and I will never let harm come to you if it is within my power." When she raised her gaze to meet Hawke's again, silent tears streaked her cheeks "But do not ask me that, Sister."

* * *

><p>The Bone Pit certainly was a dreary place. In the few times she had visited the mine with Hawke, it always struck Merrill that it was very aptly named. Unlike the rest of the mountains which were green and wooded, the Bone Pit was a barren chunk of earth, cleared and raked free of any vegetation. Chalky white rocks jutted from the dusty ground like bones, and bare stone lay around them like ancient corpses. It was as if once beaten back, the forest refused to so much set a single wildflower in this forsaken place.<p>

But not even the dreary setting could dampen the elf's spirits. Things were wonderful. The sky was blue, bright blue without a single cloud to mar its perfection. A breeze blew down from the mountain, a little dusty here in the pit, but pleasantly cooling and carrying the taste of autumn on it. Hawke walked a little ahead of her with Aveline, and Isabela walked with her.

Things were… not perfect but wonderful. They had been wonderful since Isabela had returned. She and Hawke did not fight nearly as much anymore. That awful tension and dread seemed to have diminished somewhat. Not that Hawke wasn't still tense. There had been one night she had come by the hovel, and Merrill was certain something was terribly wrong, even though Hawke had assured her everything was fine. There had been a tightness to her expression, a worry in her eyes that Merrill recognized from her recovery from the duel with the Arishok and Isabela's disappearance. But the next morning it was gone.

The world felt more normal again. Even when they were tracking down those Mages for the Knight Commander. Isabela had been with them, and Varric, and there had been no problems. No arguments over what Hawke should do with the apostates. It had not been fun, but it had been… better. There had been laughter and stories and jokes along the way, rather than just solemn business.

Isabela seemed to balance their group in a way no one else could, not even Varric. No matter the circumstance, she could manage to ease the tension or mediate disagreements with a flippant remark or voice her practical opinions. Merrill was certain the pirate did not realize the effect she had on them all, she was certain that Isabela thought she was just being… well… Isabela. And that was what made her even more beautiful.

Sunlight peaked through a crack in the mine, signaling they were close to the exit. They hadn't found much on this journey, not compared to their previous visits when they had found everything from dragonlings to drakes plaguing the miners. Hawke glimpsed over her shoulder at Merrill and smiled.

_Creators!_ Merrill felt her heart thud and flutter restlessly in her chest and her cheeks redden at the simple gesture. _After so many years, how can she still manage to make me feel like a silly little fool?_ Merrill wondered happily and returned the smile with one of her own and waved shyly.

The exchange was not lost on the pirate queen, who glimpsed down at Merrill with an amused smirk. "Look at my Kitten, all grown up and flirting."

"I wasn't flirting!" Merrill squeaked indignantly. "You can't flirt with someone you're already lovers with! Can you?"

Isabela laughed that deep, throaty laugh at her and threw an arm around Merrill's shoulders. "Oh, Kitten… there is still so much to teach you."

The elf felt her face flush again and she wiggled out from under the pirate's arm, and did not reply. Normally, she enjoyed any sort of contact with the pirate. But not when it felt so… patronizing. However, the loss of contact and lack of response did not seem to ruffle Isabela in the slightest, and the two walked on in silence until the mine opened into an exit. Aveline and Hawke had already stepped into the sun, making their way down a sandy path.

But Merrill stopped and faced the pirate. "I'm twenty-five seasons now, Isabela."

It had been seven years since she had first met the pirate and Hawke that day on the mountain. Granted, then she had been a child, legally of age according to elven custom and practice, but still very young. Much younger than everyone but Bethany. Perhaps she was still a bit naïve, but she wondered if the pirate saw her any differently than she did that first day, and more importantly, she wondered why it mattered to her at all.

"A woman never tells her age, Kitten," Isabela grinned and tousled her hair.

"Yes, a woman, Isabela. Just like Hawke," Merrill insisted. Isabela's grin faded and she tilted her head to the side, as if considering something for a very long time before opening her mouth to reply.

A long keening shriek split the air, seeming to split the very mountain, drowning out whatever the pirate was saying. A thunderous pound shook the very rock beneath her feet, as a gust of wind pitched her face forward, into the pirate. The wail continued for what seemed like an eternity as the sky darkened in shadow and culminated in a deafening roar of sound and hot breath.

Merrill was too consumed by giddy awe to be scared as the dragon, a real High Dragon, swooped down in front of her lover and the guard captain. It was massive, as if it was a mountain in and of itself, a glistening purple blue mountain with wings… and teeth, she realized as it made a snapping lunge for Hawke, who barely managed to dive out of the way.

There had been so many fights in her life, so many battles against bandits and raiders and Qunari and Mages and Templars. This was different, she thought as she matched the pirate's pace as they both rushed towards the battle. The whoop of exhilaration that filled her lungs was drowned out by another of the dragon's bone-jarring roars. This was different. It was a beautiful day, and they were fighting a _dragon_.

* * *

><p>Admittedly, the fight would have been much swifter and much less messy had Anders been with them. He had a nice collection spells that could heal the minor wounds that slowed a fighter and one or two that could restore energy during long fights. Hawke surveyed her companions. Not one had escaped injury, but each seemed to be free from any life-threatening wound. Burns and scrapes and cuts seemed to be the worst of it, praise the Maker. All the same, they should all visit Anders' clinic when they returned to Kirkwall, just to be safe, even if it meant facing his sour-faced disapproval.<p>

It was only when she was certain of her companions' safety, that she felt every blow the dragon had dealt her over the exhausting course of the battle. The ground had been very hard where she had landed once dealing the death blow. The fight had lasted impossibly long, with no end in sight. No single wound could bring down a beast of that side, and they had been forced to whittle it down slowly, until it weakened enough to provide one of them an opening.

She slumped to the ground against a boulder and stared at the dead dragon, trying to force herself to take in the sheer enormity of the creature. All of Kirkwall could have dragon steak and dragon stew every day for a month, and still half its flesh would go to waste. Disbelief bubbled from her lips in the form of laughter. A High Dragon. Oh, the stories that Varric would make of this.

"Are you alright, lethallan?" Merrill knelt beside her in the sand and wiped the soot that surely covered the rogue's face with her thumb.

Slowly, the rogue nodded and turned her face to kiss the palm of her lover's hand. "We killed…" she began, still breathless from the giddiness of still being alive. "A dragon…"

"I did not even think there were any still around, let alone one in the Free Marches," Aveline commented, wiping the blade of her sword thoughtfully. But she shook her head, a chink showing in her practical armor. "Maker, Hawke, only with you would this happen."

"I'd say you should mount and stuff the head in your estate," Isabela interrupted, hands on her hips, eyes scrutinizing the dragon thoughtfully. "If the head wasn't as big as your estate."

"The smell of it will stink up the whole mountain." Merrill wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Shaking her head, Hawke ran her fingers through her own hair. Aveline towered over her, examining her sword for nicks in the blade. Merrill still knelt next to her resting a hand on her thigh. Isabela stood on her opposite side, still gazing nonchalantly at the dragon, as if it had been any average battle. At any dozen points in the fight, she and three of the people she loved most dearly to her, could have been scorched, eaten, ripped, burned, or clawed to death, and still all she felt was relief and… happiness.

Together, they had killed a dragon. And in some way… it had been, perhaps not fun, but a welcome change.

"It's a sad day, after all this time fighting Mages and Templars, I am relieved to find myself fighting a High Dragon," Hawke remarked.

Aveline snorted, but nodded her agreement. "It is a nice change, isn't it?"

"You could always tell Meredith that it was an apostate dragon to get into the old bitch's good graces." Isabela offered with a shrug. Her normally white tunic was scorched black in many places, and the laces that restrained her ample chest were faltering.

Smirking, Hawke shifted to climb to her feet, but Merrill had beaten her to it. As she glimpsed up, both Merrill and Isabela had extended a hand to assist her to her feet. Taking each hand in one of her own, she allowed the other women to pull her up and then dusted herself off.

"Isabela, give me a hand, would you? I want to skin enough of this thing for one of the crafters in Kirkwall to make me some decent armor."

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><p><strong>Just a brief interlude to keep the story going. Again, I apologize for the suck, feedback brightens my day, and I appreciate all of y'all that follow this story.<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**I think I succeeded more with this chapter than the last one. But what do I know, really. I'm working on finishing this so I can start working on an original fic. But there is still so much to do before we even get to the Last Straw.**

**Danger, intrigue, love, betrayal, profit... and all that. Thanks everyone for their feedback. It makes my metaphorical author-cock hard. Leave me some reviews so I have something to distract me from at work!**

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><p>"I don't know how you talk me into these things, Hawke." Merrill worried her lower lip with her teeth and quickened her pace to keep up with her lover. It was early evening in Hightown, the sun had just dipped below the roofs of the taller buildings, and a whispering breeze chased away the unbearable heat of the day. It always smelled so nice in Hightown in the summer, like fresh grass and sumptuous flowers, the perfume of the ripe green plants the nobles kept in their gardens. It was different than the forest, sweeter, but more comforting than the way the rest of Kirkwall smelled during the hottest part of the year.<p>

It was a perfect evening, if the elf was honest with herself. She held close to her lover, their arms linked with waning rays of sunshine at their back and the lush breeze on their faces. People moved out of their way as they walked past; nobles veered to give the Champion the right of way. Servants hurrying to the houses of their masters and mistresses stopped altogether and offered them a bow of their heads or tip of their hat. Hawke seemed to pay them little attention, or notice them at all really, but somehow, she still managed to acknowledge each one with a thin smile or nod of her head.

That was the magic of the Champion. It was a magic Merrill could not ever hope to ever possess, but Hawke had been surely borne to it the same way Merrill was to hers. There was a natural grace in her step, warmth in her smile. She could make anyone feel like they were the only person in the world with one glance, one hint of those piercing blue eyes. It turned Merrill's bones to jelly just thinking about it. Like the princely heroes of the stories, she was an untouchable legend. But at the same time, she managed to make herself accessible to everyone, a real person that even the orphans and elves of Lowtowns could talk to.

And while the deference was obviously aimed at the Champion and not her elven lover, it still caused a lump of pride to form in her throat and she could not help but beam up at Hawke, who gazed back and graced her with a special, broad grin that she reserved just for Merrill and placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

It was a brilliant summer evening, alive with the frenetic energy of possibility, when it seemed there was no other moment in their lives that could possibly matter more.

But Merrill felt her smile fade as she remembered where they were headed. "How did you manage to talk me into this?" She repeated, feeling her face flush red at the mere thought of it.

"I didn't talk you into anything," Hawke replied quietly, but pulled Merrill a little closer. "I asked you to come, and you agreed."

Merrill scoffed and resisted the urge to bury her face in Hawke's shoulder and hide. "I can't say no to you. It would be like saying no to a baby kitten. Or a baby griffin. All you have to do is tilt your head to the side and look adorable, and I go all wobbly at the knees."

"You could have said no."

"And then I would feel terribly guilty when it is clearly you who has lost her mind."

"It's a ball. Hightown nobles love a good party; they have them all the time." Hawke steered Merrill down an intersecting street. It was true. Every noble that had a ball or wedding or party invited the Champion, so much so that she turned down most invitations and still attended at least one event each week. Diplomacy, Hawke called it. She couldn't outright refuse the nobility without losing their support, she said, and Kirkwall may one day count on the Champion holding its people together. But she never seemed to truly enjoy the parties, which was odd, Merrill thought. Although humans did have some odd notions of fun, but Hawke always came home at the end of the night look tired and harried.

"I know. And you've been to dozens. Why make me come to this one?" Hawke had bought Merrill a dress for the occasion, in true human noble style. The fabric was soft and so delicately woven if felt cool against her bare skin. But the skirt was too long, reaching her ankles, and the elf had to step very carefully so as not to trip over it. It was the color of fresh cream, with a neckline that dipped uncomfortably low and trimmed in green and dark crimson thread. It was pretty, if Merrill was honest with herself. She enjoyed standing in front of the mirror admiring how the fabric hung off her slight frame, the long skirt making her seem much taller. Yet, is was dreadfully uncomfortable, and she felt that she could not have been more self-conscious if she had been wearing a burlap sack.

"I didn't make you!" Hawke smiled and stopped in the street, twirling Merrill to face her and taking each of her hands in her own. "You're beautiful."

Merrill narrowed her eyes and tried not to smile back and failed. "You're crazy."

Leaning down, Hawke nuzzled into her neck and kissed her ear lightly, causing a shiver to race down Merrill's spine. "You are beautiful. And it is about time everyone in Kirkwall realized that." She whispered and slowly withdrew, leading her towards the towering, gaudy façade of one of the Hightown estates. Why did humans seem to like all the ornate, nonsensical carvings of swirls and loops on every defenseless piece of stone and wood used to erect their homes? It was ugly, to Merrill, patterns without meaning or story.

"I'm an _elf_," Merrill dropped her voice to a whisper as they were ushered into the home by a stuffily dressed servant, who wasn't even an elf.

He bowed obsequiously low to Hawke, and when he announced their arrival, he sounded as if he were talking with cotton in his cheeks. "The Champion of Kirkwall, Messere Marian Hawke. And her companion."

It was like being shoved into glaring afternoon sunlight after being sequestered in utter darkness for a week. There were so many people. Dozens. Perhaps even a hundred, all human nobility with haughty expressions and scrutinizing, disdainful eyes. Everything was so bright, as if they used every lamp and lantern in Kirkwall to light the enormous room. Two spiraling staircases that led to a mezzanine overlooking the room were draped in bright blue and gold fabrics. The floor was stone, but so brightly polished and smooth that Merrill was certain she could see her reflection in it. And everyone was looking at them.

"Creators, you're crazy. You've brought an elf to Hightown. To a ball. With no rats in it." Merrill slunk closer to Hawke and felt her head spin. It was disorienting. It was easy to lose herself in Kirkwall. No one paid much attention to just another elf scuttling the streets. No one paid her much attention unless she got in the way or accidently upset a merchant's cart, and she had long since learned to ignore the indignant cries and grunts of "knife-ears" or "out of the way, elf." This was different. She couldn't hide here. And she desperately wanted to hide. She felt dizzy, as if there was no one detail or person in the crowded, over-decorated room she could focus on.

"It's alright, Merrill." Hawke said quietly. "It doesn't matter that you're an elf." Still nodding and smiling graciously at everyone they passed, she led Merrill through the crowd. "Because you have one thing that they can never have, and they all _desperately_ want."

"Pointy-ears?" Merrill could not hedge the sarcasm from her words. Even still, stress shaved years off her voice, making it no more than a squeak.

Hawke grinned down at her. "No. Me."

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><p>"Your eyes are like two eggs, sizzling and fried sunny-side up, brightening the morning. Your lips, like two cherries kissing together, your voice like the smooth sweetness of molassess—"<p>

Isabela cut off the aspiring poet with an abrupt chop of her hand and rolled her eyes. "Do yourself a favor, mate, and find something to eat." She gratefully accepted the two steins Corff had refilled, and shook her head at the poor, gaping-mouthed idiot. "Because this banquet is closed." She almost felt sorry for the boy. At least he had been creative with his wooing, at least more than most. But his chin barely held a faint fuzz of a beard, his skin a bit too soft. He was a might too tender for the sort of fun that the pirate was in the mood for.

So she left him at the bar and returned to the table she had been sharing with Varric. The dwarf smirked as she placed the full stein in front of him. "The pirate queen breaks yet another heart. What was wrong with that one, Rivaini?"

Isabela sat and glimpsed over her shoulder. "Did you hear his poetry? I'm no scholar but someone needs to feed the boy some new lines. Or just feed him. Eyes like eggs, sunny-side up?" She snorted into her stein. "Even I could do better than that."

"Please don't try. I don't think my heart could take it." Varric shuffled a deck of cards in his massive hands.

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" She leaned in closer as he dealt the cards. Years ago, they would have occupied one of the larger tables, and it would have been surrounded by the other companions. It was a nightly affair at the Hanged Man, a way of venting all the stress of the days' adventures. But now Guard Captain Aveline was too bound by duty and marriage to spare much time for jaunts at the tavern. Anders and Fenris had both taken brooding to competitive heights. Bethany was locked away in that dreary Circle. At least Merrill and Hawke still sometimes joined them, but tonight they were off cavorting at some Hightown affair.

It was funny. She never remembered being board before the whole Qunari mess, before she left. There was always something to do, it seemed. And if there wasn't, she had certainly been too drunk to remember being bored and restless. The nights now seemed so droll and… bloody pointless when she wasn't joining Hawke and the others on one of their missions.

She'd tried visiting the Rose one night when she first returned to Kirkwall. But when Madam Lusine had informed her that Tara had been killed in the chaos of the Qunari uprising, Isabela had left and not returned.

"Balls. Has it always been this boring?" Isabela lamented and deftly spread her cards between her fingers.

"You did kill a dragon two weeks ago, didn't you?" Varric arched a brow.

"I didn't. Hawke did. I was just there."

"Blood Mages and Templars making you long for the days of an old-fashioned Qunari coup?"

"Maker, no!" The pirate tried not to wince at that. If there was one thing she did not miss about the "old days," it was those horned-goat-bastard-giants. She could not have known that the stupid relic would lead to such a mess, but the memories of it all still managed to burn brightly in her gut. Absently, she touched the length of cloth tied about her upper arm, a gesture that was not lost on the dwarf. "It just seems… different now… boring."

"Well," Varric lifted his stein and gestured vaguely to his right. "There's a new serving girl that has been making eyes at you for the past week. I'm sure she might have some suggestions on how to…" He grinned wolfishly. "entertain you."

Following his pointed gaze, Isabela settled on the newest addition to the staff of the Hanged Man. She was pretty, in that Lowtown sort of way. Ashen blond hair cropped chin-length, simple dress that left her shoulders bare and her impressive assets displayed. Nothing special. Isabela looked away and shrugged. "Looks the type that'll fuck with her stockings still on. Do I look that desperate?"

"Hardly. You've been as selective as I've ever seen you, Rivaini," Varric said slyly, exchanging two of his cards for two from the deck. "Since you've come back to us."

His smooth-tongued insinuations and thinly-veiled questions were easy to play off or parry. Varric was curious by nature, but rarely pried into other people's business, at least directly. "I'm saving myself for you, if you must know." Isabela countered easily, slipping her marked card back into the deck while Varric's view was obscured by his upturned stein. "I stay up late every night thinking about it, you know. That thick thatch of manly, dwarven chest hair."

"I know." He sighed, following her lead and not pushing the issue. "It's a burden to be this handsome, but Bianca is the jealous-type. It can never be, Rivaini."

"Then I shall wait, and pine for you until you relent."

The two played their cards in silence for several moments, the only sounds from their table were the slick of the cards being drawn from the deck, the clunk of heavy earthenware steins against the thick wooden table.

Varric was the one to break the silence, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "When—"

"Varric." Her amber eyes cut as quickly as her daggers, stopping the question before it could start, before it was voiced and made real. "Don't."

The pirate queen had not known what to expect when she returned to Kirkwall. She only knew that for the first time, she was not running anymore. And now that she was back, she found herself almost liberated by her circumstance. Intentional or not, the Qunari rebellion had been her fault. Lives had been wrecked, a city nearly destroyed. Hawke nearly died defending her. There were scars all over the city, marks where the stone had been gouged, blackened walls where the fires had scorched. Lines of knitted white flesh where the Arishok's blade had cut.

This was her penance for that, though she'd never admit it to anyone. She barely admitted it to herself and never in those terms. This was her lot now, and she had promised herself she would never do harm like that again. Especially not to Hawke. Or Merrill. She wouldn't interfere, and the misery of spending almost every night playing Wicked Grace or Diamondback at the Hanged Man until she or Varric ran out of coin, was comforting. A small, secret part of herself believed this is what she deserved.

But another part of her could always find an excuse. The Rose was lacking in its staff lately. None of the brawls she used to instigate were any sort of challenge anymore. That sailor was too young or too old or too stupid to bed. That girl was too plain, too jaded, too eager. She did not have time for the frivolities anymore.

And so this night would end like any of the others, although tonight she'd lose the last of her coin to Varric, cutting out any chance of whores or additional booze. When she finally crawled into her bed, she freed her hair from her bandana and turned down the lamp. But it was a long time before sleep finally claimed her.

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><p>As the evening and the ball wore on, Merrill felt less and less like hiding. No one was outright rude to her, and some were even quite nice, asking her about the Alienage and the Dalish and the Champion of course. What Hawke had said helped too of course. Once she realized that she had the one thing that all these nobles wanted, she felt richer than every single one of them. They could never hope to have what she had with Hawke, and Hawke <em>loved<em> her. Hawke didn't even _like_ many of the nobles.

The party was different from what she had suspected it would be as well, and she and Hawke made many jokes at the expense of their fellow guests about it. There were no fights for one, not a single heated argument. Not like the Hanged Man where brawls were so frequent that Corff refused to buy anything but cheaply made chairs since they were so frequently broken over the heads and backs of his patrons. There were no card games, no singing…

It was just a bunch of fancily dressed people standing in clusters, sipping from crystal glasses and speaking quietly amongst themselves.

The only interesting part of the ball was the dancing. A small knot of musicians constantly played music from one corner of the hall, and at any single point, at least a dozen people danced in the center of the room. Most were well-rehearsed dances with specific steps, each person knowing his or her own part and working in unison with the group. But some were more improvised, and she and Hawke danced in several of those.

At first, Merrill had been mortified when Hawke had dragged her onto the dance floor, but that was soon forgotten as they began twirling and spinning, laughing and always coming together in one another's arms.

After one of these dances, breathless and laughing, they hobbled from the dance floor. Hawke's face was flushed red with merriment and exertion, and she grinned. "Not so bad, then?"

"I think we've made fools of ourselves. But if you don't care…" Merrill stood on her toes to kiss her lover's cheek. "Then neither do I."

Hawke nodded, then quickly sobered as a young man approached with an equally young woman on his arm. They were both blond, thin and hawk-faced and close enough in appearance to be close relations, siblings. "Our host for the ball, and his sister." Hawke explained hastily as she straightened her shirt and waistcoat. "They're determined that one of them will marry me."

The abrupt pronouncement stirred up a clot of questions, but Merrill didn't have time to ask a single one as their two hosts were upon them. Hawke bowed her head respectfully in greeting, and the two blond siblings mirrored the gesture. The man was dressed similarly to Hawke in tight breeches and stiff riding boots, but under his waistcoat he wore a stiff shirt with a high collar all the way up to his chin. As if Hawke would ever marry such a silly looking man.

And the sister wasn't much better. She looked like a shrew, her eyes too close together and her nose too pointed. And she wore enough gold jewelry to keep a dragon happy. Certainly not Hawke's type either.

It wasn't surprising that other people found Hawke beautiful and clever and amazing. She remembered what she had asked Isabela, so many years ago. How could anyone not love her? But this was different. These two nobles were haughty, Orlesian, and not right for Hawke at all. How could they want to marry her? Hawke had never mentioned them before, she was certain. They couldn't know her, not the way Merrill did, not the way Isabela or Varric or Aveline or even Anders knew her.

"Lord Edmund Carrac and his sister Lady Theodora," Hawke introduced formally, using the voice she usually reserved for the Knight Commander. "May I present Merrill, First of the Sabrae clan."

"A pleasure, I'm sure." Merrill gave a curt nod, wanting desperately to slink behind Hawke again. She didn't like the way Theodora looked at her, like a vulture circling, waiting.

"A Dalish, here in Kirkwall? Maker, you do keep odd company. Is this the elf they say travels with you, Champion?" Edmund swept his eyes over Merrill with indifferent appraisal, as if he looking over a horse he was debating on purchasing. "You could hardly tell her apart from one of the elves we keep here in the city."

"Oh, city elves don't have vallaslin," Merrill chimed in quickly and touched a finger lightly to the tattoos marking her face, feeling more than a little indignant at being compared to a city elf. He was an idiot, she decided, if he couldn't tell the difference. "Only the Dalish mark themselves when they come of age. It's a rite of passage for us, to mark our connection to our ways and the Creators."

"How positively intriguing." Theodora said flatly, and the tips of Merrill's ears burned. The noblewoman averted her attention back to Hawke, her smile a little sweeter. "First you slay a dragon, and now you have your very own Dalish elf. Messere Hawke, you certainly liven up any party. Next thing you know, you'll be bringing nugs to the winter solstice ball."

The muscles in Hawke's jaw bunched, and Merrill felt a small thrill of triumph that Hawke found their hosts as dreadful as she did. Yet always the diplomat, Hawke forced a faint smile. "You flatter me, as always, Theodora, but Merrill is actually my lifemate. Surely you've heard she lives with me?"

Seeing Theodora's smile falter was enough to make Merrill positively swell with pride, and the smile she offered the two siblings was genuine. _Lifemate_, Hawke had called her. "Of course," Edmund covered for his sister. "But you know how rumors are in the city. One never knows what to believe."

"Exactly, why, for years the story has been you dueled the Arishok for that pirate out of love." Theodora shook her pretty blond hair and laughed haughtily, and Merrill wanted to slap her again.

But then she felt Hawke's arm around her waist, and smiled instead. "It was a pleasure meeting both of you."

As bows were once again exchanged, and the nobles retreated to another cluster of party-goers, Merrill released a breath she had not realized she had been holding. "Hawke! They were dreadful! Why would they want to marry you? How could they think you'd ever marry someone like… like… them! They're awful and silly and neither of them have the brains to fill a tea cup."

Her lover chuckled quietly, under her breath. "They are idiots, but powerful idiots." She snagged two crystal glasses from a passing servant's tray and offered one to the elf. "And I can't outright refuse anyone without offending them and potentially losing their support."

Merrill sipped from the glass and licked her lips. The drink was tart and fizzy, not at all like the drinks served at the Hanged Man. It was like biting into a ripe fruit, sweet and refreshing. "But they don't know you at all. Why would they want to marry you? Not that I don't want to marry you. Not that you aren't worth marrying. Not that… oh, Merrill, stop babbling." She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled deeply.

Hawke did not smile, but her eyes did. "They have no interest in _me_. Well, they might, but that's not what motivates them. They want the power and standing that a marriage with the Champion would give them."

Finishing her drink in two quick gulps, Merrill shook her head and let Hawke take the empty glass from her. "Humans are so silly. Then why bring me here and tell them I was your lifemate? Isn't that telling them that you refuse them?"

"That's precisely why I wanted you to come." Hawke left their glasses on a nearby table and took Merrill by the arm, leading her through the crowd once again. "I can't say no because then they would get all huffy. And I'm tired of stalling and evading every damn noble and his son when they proposition me why my heart belongs to another."

Merrill noticed Edmund and Theodora as they approached the exit, and the knot of nobles, all turned to stare. Not at Hawke, which was unusual, but at Merrill. Some of the faces were like Theodora's, predatory and hostile, but others seemed… wistful almost, even admiring. She ducked her head as they passed, trying not to feel the burn of their gazes.

"But by bringing you and publically declaring I already _have_ a suitor, a lifemate," Hawke was still talking as they left the estate and stepped into the warm night air. "I have told them all "no" in a way they can't outwardly be offended by. And by tomorrow, all of Kirkwall will know that I am pledged to you, and you alone. You deserve that recognition. And it's time that people start respecting you the same way they respect me. I'm not a bonded mercenary living in Lowtown anymore. I'm Champion, noble of my own right, which means they need to get used to seeing you as my beloved, because wherever I am, I want you at my side."

Threading her fingers through the rogue's, Merrill could not help but smile. "I'm just me, Hawke. I don't need the recognition, but I am glad I helped you tell the nobility no. And it was fun. Not just telling Theodora and Edmund no, but the other parts. The dancing, especially. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, and not as awful as Isabela said it would be."

"I love you, Merrill." Hawke stopped short, just outside the door of her estate and swept Merrill off of her feet and into her arms, much like she had the first time she carried the elf back to the estate. "I want all of Kirkwall to know it."

Her arms looped around her lover's neck, Merrill stole a quick kiss. "I know, Hawke, and I love you. I always have, and I always will."

"Let's go to bed. I'm sure the messages that are no doubt stacked on my desk can wait until morning."

"But I'm not tired."

Hawke kissed the tip of Merrill's ear in the way that made her heart flutter and her stomach turn over in flips. "Neither am I." She admitted and opened the door with her foot, holding Merrill gingerly in her arms.

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><p><strong>Aww... fluffy-kins. A deviation from the main-story to give everyone a lovely little break from the tension... sort of. Plus, there is so much tension and drama going on, I wanted to show more of these two all mushy and junk.<strong>

**Next chapter, shit gets real again. Please feed my review addiction!**


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